Ready.
An ancient mix
of connection plus
classic individuality.
Steady.

Heart and soul pull
together to form sweet
jams of melodious rewrite.

First draft,
Pah! No more than
scribbled lines of quick snap,
The sound of an idea. Crackle!
Electric pop.

Second screening;
This time with a chord
on blues and lyricise.

Word choice, bass drum
Action verb, guitar solo.
Stage left, practice practice
Perfect is only in front of a mirror.
Blue in the face,
Expertise of spit out syllables and rosy pink word fire.

Freeform poetry {jazz},
Filled with line
b
    R
        E
              A
                     K
                            S
that shimmy and shake.

Get up!
The finale is now
Adoring fans
Closed eyes bring
fantastic images
of repressed nights
Howling to be free.

Stage fight
Charming souls
with solid words
and wisdom of the wah wah

i wake up
to blinking messages
that i managed to ignore
because my lids were fastened shut.
i have a tendency to fall asleep
during conversations.

but i love tuesday mornings,
(this semester, at least)
because that extra hour
and a half
of sleep
keeps me going through the day.

i spent most of the morning
browsing through
missed connections
on craigslist.

i wonder,
maybe one of these are for me.
maybe i’ll find my soul mate.
or maybe i’ll get kidnapped.

three hour lectures
are the least favorite part of my tuesdays.
that
and math.
i don’t understand matrices.
but i’m too proud to ask for help.

i slept, though.
in art
because i couldn’t
seem to focus
on industrial design
or my
professor’s racist
and sexist remarks.

but at least the day’s over.
and i managed to get
home
right before it started
to rain.

law and order
is on.
maybe i want to be
a police officer.
just like
when i watch house,
i want to be a
doctor.

My heart
Will be yours
The day i can hold you
Thats what i tell myself
I fear it will be before
I love that it may be before
You are so perfect
You are so sweet
You are so...
Undescribable
My feelings i can not fight
You are so amazing
I never know what to expect from you
Every day a new thing learned
As it should be
So many messages between us
So many more to come
The smile upon my face
As i see it is you messaging
Knowing you smile when you see its me
Could this be?
Can this be?
One day we will know
One day

Bolero

Roll….slowly,let me rope your soul solely,
As you feel the Sandmans touch take control see,
Theres a whole lotta atmospheric pressure involved,
Rhymes gamed, flames flamed- new riddles to be solved,
Dissolve yourself in my dissolution,
Sudoku rhymer-kabuki solution,
My approach comes over the crowd like a wave-

Hypnotic suggestions -  your psyche’s enslaved,
Sway,stay,pray - I prey on your grey matter,
Thoughts dreams and scenes flee all become scattered…
A battered suit of plate armour that STILL holds firm,
Come with me as I whisk you away into the firmament,
See stars born and die in mere millisecs,
Come get drawn further every parsec,
Away from Earth a mere ball of dirt,
Some try to escape their fate the truth can hurt...

But we’re all stardust,so return to your beginnings,
Still spinning,no sinning hear the Multiverse singing,
my Bolero whips you tight in triple time,
dance with me hold tight to my rhyme…

The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.

She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."

The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.

my stomach has never hurt
so hard
from laughing because i’ve met
some of the best people
to share it
with.
it’s two in the morning
and we decide
perhaps it is time to start
the work that we should’ve
done ahead of time.
and in the morning,
we promise we’ll finish
but instead
we sit and laugh, again.
this time, inappropriately.
the professor’s watching,
and we aren’t getting our work done.

the mexican restaurant
ironically run by asians
is closed.
again.
i’m craving enchiladas.
so i make do with second tier
ones from gramercy.
they’re not bad.
but i prefer
the ones from the mexican restaurant
run by asians.

i sit bundled up,
half free-writing, half asleep,
and i take the person sitting in front of me
and use them to my advantage.
perhaps if i move my head
just a little to the left,
the professor won’t see me
nodding off to sleep.

(i just wanted a little nap).

but i resist
and we present
half-heartedly.
i don’t think we really cared
about the new chancellor
about bloomberg
and about joe torre.

the library brings a welcome change,
and i see a familiar face.
and we sit together
and we laugh
and before we know it,
it’s time for class.
again.

this time,
i make haste
to allow my eyelids to flutter
until they are cemented shut
as Descartes is explained to us
by our passionate
but flighty
professor.

i wake up in time
to be assigned into a group.
(what are we arguing again?)
something about the senses
and how to use them.
and whether we are certain.

i dislike debates like this.
i feel uncertain already.
and philosophy
makes me even more uncertain.
uncertainer. uncertainest.

the train ride home is a haze.
and i am glad to be home.
even though the living room
is missing
its lively chatter
half
from my parents
and half
from the television.

but they’ll be home soon,
and all will be right.

The intraveneous needles pumped their black liquids, and I could feel my eyeballs bulging completely, pathetically to their limits as I extrapolated from the tantalum-covered machine the lifeforce I knew I needed.

"You can not breathe here," they always told me before I took my journal past the archway, and I was as good as dead if...

It was always if. If the machine broke down, if the communications were broken, if the moon didn't turn half-way just right at the given time.

There was a solid thought, though, a recurring idea.

"If you make it to Otherside, they're going to call you by name and recognize you. If you make it to Otherside, your cover will be blown," I kept hearing a voice call to me.

I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.

You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate

There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.

Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.

There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.

There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.

But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.

Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.

Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,

Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,

As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.

Love lets children play
Fly away
In imaginary planes
Or soar in space
With alien races

It replaces fear
with compassion
Cares little
For what’s in fashion

Freeform, whimsical delight
No order or structure
No constancy
No normalcy
Freedom unrestrained

Our world might be improved
If more adults learned to play
In a childish way