Fresh air hitting newborn
lungs lodged in a memory
made of mealworms.
Chalking dirt between
serrated incisors.
The day I asked a new girl to be my girlfriend
you left a note at my house signed "love,"
telling me you were infinitely sorry.
Some things just don't have an explanation.
There is a knife in my throat
chalking chords between serrated teeth
words ground down to chunks of flesh,
they never last,
they taste like the last
of something we had.
When I kissed your face in my bedroom
there was no golden crust of light
you gave me head
and I didn't cum,
over the next year I fell in love it tasted
like blood in my mouth there is a knife
in my throat,
you placed it delicately
as if you'd be back to pull it out
with hands still warm from
spreading another's pulse
and stroking down the center
with one finger.
I said all the words I knew
in the hopes you'd hear some you liked,
I made a collage of spittle and stringy voice box
from my insides you didn't come back
so your note
is noted but there is no "us" curled up
in grand central station, no eyes glowing,
and there is nothing left to say, but
it hurt in a way I was not ready to know
and came from a direction I had never believed in,
neither of us are the same people.
Thanks for the golden days
most of them were
i'm sorry I crumpled so easily
I don't think i'll ever be the same
I think that's a good thing
but you had to know you had to know
what I didn't
and someday you'll grow up,
it'll hurt,
it's worth it.
So it goes.
I am smoker, thats what I am.
And it makes me feel good.
When I sit at a bench,
and watch people pass,
With smiles on their faces or scowls as well,
And I love to share a square with someone unknown,
As mine and their story pours out while we both take a drag,
To me that is living and having a good time.
I am a smoker, thats my addiction,
Others hate it, but to me that is love.
Infatuated with nature and its conflictions,
I'll rise really early to watch the sunrise,
The pretty pink colors juxsaposed with purple,
Birds, planes and cars all rushing: rushing somewhere,
Or nowhere at all, I just sit there and wonder,
With tendrils of smoke soaking my clothes,
I do not care to rush, I am a smoker.
Watching in silence trying to witness,
Something worthwhile and great,
While others are worried about being late.
I am smoker, that is my passion,
It might be wrong but it feels so right.
When I go somewhere beautful,
new, old, familiar or strange,
I light up a stick, and blow smoke at the sky,
Blow smoke at those faces, sharing the sight with me.
I will buy a new album and share it with a cigarrette,
While the headphones blast and soothe,
My hand comes to my mouth,
And feeds it its poisons or nutrition.
Call it malicious, but my tenure on this earth,
Wont be so much longer than it is expected.
I am a smoker, that is my sin,
I try to kick it, but it comes back.
Once I did not smoke for six months,
And i felt okay, as I watched others enjoy,
that which I loved and cherished at one point,
But after I abandoned her, my habit that is,
I asked her out once more,
and has not left me since,
She takes care of me when im happy or sad,
When I have been a good boy or bad.
She loves me no matter what,
Even If i did leave her once.
But I will leave her again,
Maybe today or when it has been enough,
But right now I will finish this pack,
And see what comes after.
A hooded figure lying in wait,
winds dance around,
hiding, revealing, twirling in circles,
it's almost time.
Hoarse coughs sound throughout the night.
He is not scared, he will not be harmed.
Time is endless, but time will stop.
This book is ending, another is near.
Him and his friends, they dance,
gracefully protecting,
in return, he gives them life,
one of darkness.
Blinks open his eyes, there is calm.
He greets the other as a true friend.
A life well lived, no regrets.
This new dance, slow and ageless.
Light emerges,
shadows retreat once more,
you are safe, for tonight.
To wish, to wish,
To dream a dream,
To writhe in nightmares of the obscene,
To ask, to know, to whisper, to scream,
The Waters of Regret, with tears, it teems.
The Night has vanquished the Softening Light,
The mind and heart, as one, in flight,
They try to spread their wings but unfold
Blackened remains of dreams so bold.
Skeletal and frail, they represent
The nothingness, the loss and lament,
They creak as they move in their fragility,
They yearn to wander eternally,
It happens that I do, indeed, readily
disagree fullheartedly,
With Love and its "virility".
Happiness is a virtue, a privilege,
Not a tome, a text, or pledge,
It holds steady in the worst of winds,
A Northern ship in the tides and spins,
The pitch and yaw of each barrage,
Makes one wish for camouflage,
From life, from loss, from all heartache,
All who I know regret me, their mistake.
Be at peace, I'm at peace,
It's the rest I need,
I try and remember when you were happy
Finally back home.
The amazing Texas sun shining on my face.
The warmth spreading through my body.
Listening to the sounds of the nature,
as I walk through the woods on my family farm.
Feeling safe, loved, and happy.
Surrounded by the family I haven't seen in months,
Some its been years, others I have never meet until today.
Just loving the feel of the rifle that is slung over my shoulder,
and the ammo in my back pockets.
Everyone is laughing and eating and talking.
As it gets darker and people start leaving...
We light the bonfire and the heat emanating off of it...
is too intense to even stand by.
When the day finally comes to an end,
I'm just happy that I am finally back home!
Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?
Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.
These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.
The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.
Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.
Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?
Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.
These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.
The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.
Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.
Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?
Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.
These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.
The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.
Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.
Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?
Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.
These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.
The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.
Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.
You're alive,
and all I want is for the air out of your newly reborn lungs
to break against the back of me
and solidify how you're well
and breathing.
Your gentle winds
were commonly the cure-all
for my each and every ache
as they poured from luscious lips
that would move rhythmically
against my shy skin.
The sun shines on a different side of you now,
and I count the rolling hills your chest will form
when you inhale and
let out an expelled breath of relief.
I envision a piece of Arcadia *
growing at the core of your incipient mind
where greenery serves for thought
and it prospers peacefully.
So I plant seeds in the palm of your wanting hands
and I count the time it takes
for you fingers to find light
while I hope that you're here to stay
with me.
