no, i saw you stand when you felt
compelled by some substantial guilt
to flee the concrete stoop and spout
an equally unwieldy bout

that all was like your box  of bricks
subject to your picking and mixed
in such a way that the unknown
nature of your constructions grow

but no i say, you are opposed
in everything you say and know
for half is master of control
a thief, unlike romantic souls

that take things in pace as they are
swooned by  soldiers of every war
and consequently fated to
be affected, but always lose



this is how i bear with the glare
that flashes in those ever rare
moments where i see your muscles
twitch a smile at the puzzle

and yes, I cold be wrong.

no, i saw you stand when you felt
compelled by some substantial guilt
to flee the concrete stoop and spout
an equally unwieldy bout

that all was like your box  of bricks
subject to your picking and mixed
in such a way that the unknown
nature of your constructions grow

but no i say, you are opposed
in everything you say and know
for half is master of control
a thief, unlike romantic souls

that take things in pace as they are
swooned by  soldiers of every war
and consequently fated to
be affected, but always lose



this is how i bear with the glare
that flashes in those ever rare
moments where i see your muscles
twitch a smile at the puzzle

and yes, I cold be wrong.

i think i’ve killed it
i can see it deflating in the skull’s corner
all of it

no matter the think thought
speak it enough
and all perspectives
are complementary mirrors
circling the magician
and no matter where you stand
you can see the rabbit come out the sleeve

i think i’ve killed it
all of it

you know the sides of the die
you know odds and chances
you know the faces in the deck
you know no matter what is thrown
you don’t even have to catch it

because i can do that for you
but i is not stitched to you
and when you see i pulling
card tricks and rabbits from his hat
you look into the mirrors
and  you laugh at all the laughs

and if i fails, then you might see
the wretch retreat to the back scenes
and as his friend you may sit beside him
but you does not have empathy
because you can know me

me, i think i’ve killed it
and seen the magic dead
and even killed the magician
just to bring him back again
because i can do that
i can be affected by all
i can  bleed from wounds
and pore with pride
and find beauty in it all

while you just sits there smirking
at i, a twitching infant
over stimulated and babbling
and feeling every minute

and now you’ve gone and thought too much
and even this pretty martyrdom
just seems another trick
to keep baby i entertained

listen, its like this:

say you live in a cold house
you have a fireplace
when the closeness of the air
starts to crystallize your capillaries
you can go out in the yard
fetch some firewood
and providing you have sulfur flint or friction
burn the fuel for warmth


whenever you may feel
that to ward off slowing blood
you'd like to light a fire
then the fireplaces remains
an outlet for your blaze

and i will be the fuel
when i am plentiful




but here you are kneeling
twisting match heads by the wood
contemplating flame
when you turn to the pine and complain
how come you never get cold?

i have a cut on the bottom of my foot
how, i don’t know
when, i don’t know
it merely appeared one morning
i was drowning in cold sweat
i was choking in all that sunshine
and in my transparent
chimeric dream state
birds’ song and memory
became intertwined

i think i lit a fire the night before
i think i found a begging hand
and slammed it in the door
i think i still was guilty
and ridden with malaise
i think i hung my coat in smoke
beside my crafted blaze
to cover up the stench
of my last few days

so i awoke
with this cut, as i said
barely stitched together
by eager hands of fibroblasts
coagulation had amassed
futility in its efforts
for on discovering this cut
and the soreness that enveloped it
i crushed the meat
between my fingers
until the milk of infection
and blood of my veins
flooded in release of pain
broke the binding scabbing chain
and the fleshy chasm still remained

that day i spent repenting
or correcting, i should say
for as the morning trudged along
i found the casualties of my ways:
an opportunity slaughtered
that a coward wouldn’t save
a friend beneath a boulder
in the belly of a cave
and a innocent life
in that drowsy night
found my tires
as its grave

but with all the mistakes i’m sure i’ve made
with all the morals my moves degrade
with all the arrogance i parade
and all the faces of my charade
i know a hole of regret
where my heart should be put

yet i only wish i was not beset
by this cut upon my foot

fire is the cyclin
of my sleeping cells
i confide that the sirens
could shake me out of hell
outside my window
they whip lights in a pinwheel
like the spin of a circus tent
the watch of a hypnotist
blaze, then extinguish
red white, red white
as if your neighbor's home in flames
wasn't annoying enough

you are absolutely necessary and utterly unimportant.
you are not important because
everything is important and important means
you are better than the mud
you are not

i can say this because
i want to be content. and to be so
i think i must owe myself to everything. because every little piece makes the puzzle, every tiny drop of paint changes the color, whether
you or
i can see it. down to the atom, every rock that
i step on, every bird in my ear, every bearable sting of guilt felt from swatting a fly, they have worked in perfect proportion, each paint drops precisely suffused to the present shade of my experience. and if
i am to be at peace, my life should not be measured but
i must be accepting of
everything as it comes.
i find this possible in realizing that the stretch in my smile and the tears on my cheek are all just as needed in shading me. no single experience makes the man.  and to be accepting of the summation
i must accept that every single experience in my collective past was utterly necessary. every single experience, and each minor detail of each experience, and how they  scatter on the surface like little melting beads, and how they eventually sink and mix; all single molecules of paint diffusing in the only proportion to make the present shade of my life, none more important than the other, down to the atom, ultimately equal.
not in quantity, but in quality
everything equal. what it means is that
i love you. but
i love the sweat greased ball bearings of dirt in my boot
i love the percussion of infection drenched nerves in my foot
i love the salt stick of your skin and staunch of your cough as you beat through the barreling wind. and
i love the invisible river of shivering brush waving like cilia down the valley. into the bioluminescence of our L.A. colony.
i love you if you love me and
i love you if
you hate me.  because even your hate will drop like paint into me and change the shade to something
i have not yet seen.
i know we have different eyes but
i think this works for mine.
i will love you in equivalence to every molecule
i breathe.
utterly unimportant and absolutely necessary.