Reluctance wants to

be alone, unobserved not --


doing what you want.

I think about it

all day, so actually --


I'm practising hard!

There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
Breathe.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.

The Gloaming

The flames licked my feet,
I smiled.
The tickle was fleeting, the burn for awhile;
the memory lasts longest,
still here to this day,
long after the scars have faded away.
In the gloaming thereafter
I’ve traveled alone,
avoiding the fire and ash that it's sown.
Though I once played with flames,
though once I was hurt,
still the nip of the night bears no pretense of comfort.

To ask
the most simple query
that has lingered
in my thoughts
That transmogrified
into a hold of fear
that never lets you go.

Burning a hole
from inside your head
and mutates your tears
into harrowing acid
Dripping from your eyes.

I shall keep this query to myself
As the answer I most fear
is the one chosen true.

contusion clouds burst confusions under the sound.

underground, through the air, and softer the sea.

     a pond a barrier to you and to me

          song as sweet and stiffened at the



                                                         fireflies and jello eyes watching shyly

                              your fingers are blue and ivory they burn in the light

                 song as sweet as the purple dew in the crook of your fingers



                    you are told as strong as sand

                                    you are rock

                    you are clinging to rock atoms

                                      be honest

                     you are shrapnel arriving early and departing late.