a yellow bedroom
in the future
holds some promise
that joy inspired
smiles can hold
together things that
seem most important
and gotta be
since i have
put so much
stock in this
right along with
you yet your
tears last night
accompanied with your
voice quivering over
that machine struck
so much fear
and anguish into
my bones that
my marrow feels
pain and my
heart beats harder
and my lungs
become desperate enough
to make me
realize i am
no longer independent
you and i
are a part
of each other
even though we
are miles separated
with a feeling
of dehydration and
such a thirst
that can only
be slaked by
your everywhere hair
with a knot
and your eyes
that slay me
every single time
i dream of
them.

i'm confused so
show
me
who your
heart
              is.
i'm fragile so
show
me
what your
heart
              is.
i'm late so
show
me
when your
heart
              is.
i'm lost so
show
me
where your
heart
              is.
i'm young so
show
me
why your
heart
             is.
i'm found so
show
me
how your
heart
              is.

please, may i run?
with a wind in my lungs enough to fuel a truck speeding down
the highway and headed west to a place where imagery and
songs make lasting impressions; even on those who have never been there.
please, may i run?
grow tired of only dreaming in my sleep and with
blank stares at walls during NA meetings listening to a
fifty year old child speak of his glory days.
Please, may i run?
i need to be somewhere in order to be and it's
gotta be far from here because here there is no being.
please, may i run?
until the souls in my shoes are no more and left unjudged
for their actions or lack of.

who in history came up with the idea of a promise?
well, i'm having trouble keeping some of mine.
as a promise maker, i'd like to curse the promise inventor.
such a bad idea.

The world changes around me but not as I sit perched,collecting memories and organizing them in my thoughts that sprout up through cracks as would a **** in concrete. A dandelion. Not you, a rose, like in Tupac's poem. And i digress because thats what I do more often than not. We speak of our impressionist dreams that are just alike, but not yet realized. Not a one. Well one or two but that's it. And that's only a tip of an iceberg. Which is us in danger of melting like the rest of the revolutionaries along with all the changes occuring around us. Will our love change right along with us  and everything else? how will it be to be forty and married? Would we be content? would you go search for him? If you found god would you be done with me. Would you declare me a heretic if I didn't go to church and let jesus live inside me along with the rest of my collectibles. If you found god, would I pretend to have as well so as to not lose you. Hopefully, and isn't that all we are, a sack full of fast foods, hope and regrets. Nothing will go south or sour! We can't let it! Our love will survive all the ******, gods, alcohol, ******, alleys, concrete basketball courts, blacks in the ghetto, american presidents, economic revolutions, rapists, murderers, taxes, mortgages and regime changes. My tongue, along with my eyes, along with my lips, along with my fingers, along with my hair, along with my hair,along with my grey matter, along with my heart, does truly believe we will love longer, harder, deeper, truer and out last, out live, out happy, out joy, out defeat, out wit everyone. I told the elders we don't bother to pray. But we dream very well and not in the real world, not in their world, but in our world. The one we created for ourselves to fly in and out of rain clouds and swim in black water thats flooded on the inside of parking garages. I want to tell you things in a way that can convey myself and still be understood fully. I'm not sure if it is possible to get a ride, convey,write or paint my mind, my soul, my heart properly enough. but if anyone could ever understand my sore joints, and dances with death,it'd be you right? Because we are the same. we have been drinking from the same cup. and been dealt the same ****** hand but at different games. you are the lotus on your wrist and I am the owl in my throat and it means everything yet nothing to everyone else's big scheme. and still everything to ours. you are the only one here who understands why I think rain puddles with oil in them are beautiful.

I was a banana slug
caught trespassing
in the center of your house.
I felt nervous and
out of place when
you found me and
put me in a jar then
stared at my slimy sunrise body.
I thought
surely this will be the end of me
I will be killed.
through the glass I spied
your heart beating
for me as you picked it up
like a carriage and
carried me back to
a turquoise valley that
was familiar and beautiful and
released me in the rain.
looking back I remember thinking
about what all I must go through
to get back inside your house.
because I loved the way you were staring at me.
the way your heart was beating for me was new.
and now that feeling is lost.

your smell resides in my mind behind a door i didn't bother to lock up after all. its still in there though, collecting dust among other things. i was excited for you once. i was excited about you. i loved the tangles in your hair. i loved the way you looked up at me when i stood over you. i was scared to death and i felt like i was crazy. my mind was so fatigued and i shouldn't have said you were to young to really love or that i'd **** your dad. i loved you and i was sure of it. i felt so old and rusty. i wanted to be held like the child.