Don't call it silver
It is so utterly grey
Your banner waving
To humdrum anthems
Of countries upset
By the way you say
Words that are never
To be written in grey
Whose fibers cannot
Be found in your atrophy
You will die quietly
Not as a martyr dies
Never as red as the
That blanket so many hills
There are none that you would die on
It is a shame you share
The color of stone
One might mistakenly
Paint you trustworthy
We the people,
floodwaters rising over Kansas City banks
and marketplace levies,
are channeled into rooms
the size and shape of shadows
to be given direction,
to give direction;
waiting our turn to be
churned through turbines.
Our mass is growing stagnant
by this massive
damn; This feels like surrogate thinking.
Our water is wasted on greco-roman men
chopping up districts into blues and reds
dividing and conquering the ocean.
There are times
when the moon is busy elsewhere
and the candles are growing old
that your eyes catch mine
in the simplest of ways
and send me.
When our gravity overflows
and we are drawn together
for reasons only the planets know,
I cannot place my finger on it;
I would likely lose my hand.
Those times I know
that a door handle decision
will be the difference
between goodnight and good morning.
I find no romance in the air tonight.
It would seem we have breathed it all in.
I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes.
Never know what the slots will bring.
When I told you I liked surprises
I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics
all over the bedroom sheets
counting how many times you could divide yourself
and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians
always failing to find the difference
between their science and the love you needed.
I was 7 digits from talking you down.
You felt you were born 6 feet too high.
There are 5 times I can remember you laughing
the last of those was on the 4th of July.
How can anyone believe they are free
when we are bought at this calendar price?
You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it.
time is not made of numbers,
but of songs.
I replay that memory at least 3 times a night.
Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing
I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number.
I have spent cozy evenings
cuddled up with the burden you left behind.
It is colder than I remember you
and always seems to squeeze my neck
just a little too tight.
You wanted to become 0,
ignoring my side of this equation,
but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole.
I fell down bell curve cliffs
until my words themselves became improbabilities.
My love was more than average,
I miss you.
You're so damn stupid.
I loved you.
I love you.
If you and I are numbers
we are easily replaceable,
replicable as science has always wanted us to be.
I am telling you now
that no one else fits.
I should have told you that a few days ago
when I had more of you to stand by
than fragments of memories
each one passing, blaspheming your sum.
Sink into me.
We'll burn the clocks
and drink our music.
Rest your wandering feet.
I've built you this home
of bone and song
and wrapped it in my skin.
Tell me your heart can beat for me.
Sink into me
until we forget all our fences.
i am tracing prophecies
on the scroll of your skin
forming my own words
over your tattoos
You invite my melancholy out for a stroll.
It declines, as you knew it would.
Your wink: the absence of sun.
Somewhere between us is a Rhodes piano.
Roll with my eyes into the beyond.
Your speech: a muted drum.
if you dare,
over the translucent image
of summer rain.
long after her coffee is gone
and the walls are reminiscing
about the days of her scent.
if you dare,
after the rain is gone
and someone else's face
is staring at your obsession.
I won't blame you.
I can't do drugs like these doctors,
these stone faced professionals,
who take walks in the forrest
like a notch on their belt.
I can't close my eyes like the civilized do
when someplace near them is crying.
Somewhere I heard an old voice say
that our eyes are made for drinking,
that our skin is made for fingernails,
and our tears are meant to sting.
I can't sing when my eyes are open
because of the whirlpool's game.
I can't speak when there's music playing,
but I can scream at the fiery bumblebees
who mistake my ribs for their cage.
Alive, to me, is a word in motion:
our world in motion.
My body emotion
ransacks my neurons
and their electric chair.
I am slain, wide-eyed, at the sight of you breathing;
each wave eroding my shore.
Let's play strip poetry
until we're no more
than two souls
on Bojangles' shoes
tapping morse code messages
to the listening stars,
and should heaven ever hear us
we'll craft music for clothing
and wrap ourselves in symphonies
of the modern night.
I want to lie in bed with you.
I want the feeling I had lying in bed with her.
I doubt you'll ever give me that feeling.
I'd still like to lie in bed with you
just to evaluate the difference.
It's as if someone has stopped the music
and no one has noticed but me.
This quiet is ugly, inside and out,
and smells of rotting orchestras.
That is a theatrical lie,
and an attempt to make you miss me.
The truth is, everything looks the same.
I hear the familiar jaded hum of living
and it smells like coffee and cinnamon.
I am hating the thought
of fading into a life without you.
Break my heart quickly
or love me 'til death
brings that quiet I lied about hearing.
Silently the composer crept
Through wheat fields blanched in silver moons;
Running his fingers through stalks of hair,
Keeping quiet the secrets of the night.
He ran to the lightbulbs glowing in the dew
And held in his mouth the owl's conversation.
In his nostrils swirled the reminiscent songs
Of honeysuckle and melon.
Daylight broke with him rolling in the dust
On the old wooden library steps.
He wiped the stares from their faces with a folded cloth
And tucked it neatly in his pocket.
He ran, with the tail of the wind and his bounty in tow,
Back to his humble beginnings
And emptied his pockets, his nostrils, his soul,
Onto the keys of a poorly-tuned piano.
I got your number off the bathroom wall.
I was hoping you could help me forget.
I don't need a girlfriend, so much as a canvas.
Let me paint you with the taste of her lips.
I need a toothbrush or two forefingers
long enough to coax your love from my throat.
This one will not pass quietly.
I sing our song to the music of drums and chandelier splinters/
of thousand-year oaks yielding to the wind.
Have you ever heard your heart break clearly?
It is less like 808s and more like breathless tears.
Your lips were made for Hallelujahs.
Nothing less will do them justice,
and nothing more exists.
When granted the joy of life's creation,
their Maker sang into the heavens
and choreographed their dance.
The breath that passes between their mountains
carries with it the secret signature
of death-defeating hands.
Your lips were made to form sweet praises
with all the spirit and humbled passions
your heart and soul enlist.
We have crossed paths without speaking before,
but this is very different.
I travelled as far as Riverside
before my heart went chasing your gravity.
I just haven't stopped loving you yet.
Please return the package to sender.
I woke with your laughter pounding in my eyes.
It was as if I had swallowed a grapefruit whole
and my breaths were determined to defeat each other.
Your name never did sit right on my tongue.
Your tongue, however, is another story.
I miss you with five of these useless senses
and I find myself dancing around your shadow
in dust you kicked up when you spoke our confession:
This is not meant to be.
How many of those fifteen hundred moons
did you look up to with longing?
How many stars witnessed our passion,
and on which of them did you wish to be free?
I can't look at you without tasting envy
of whoever will one day be home for your skin.
It is coating my tongue,
filling the awkward places where your name used to be.
have you ever looked at a word
looked at it again
and read it as if it were your first time
reading that word
as if all the other times you wrote "night"
the letters were somehow
I saw your picture on my nightstand
I don't believe we've met
Tomorrow I will write.
Tonight I will bleed,
With a stomach full of table saws.