all these thoughts will be set in motion
in your eyes i see the ocean
on your lips i'll taste the sea
this is the life you've given me
in your hands i'll feel the earth
finally i'll understand my worth
that it was never meant for man
too many people can't understand
that it's about loving yourself first
only then will you quench the thirst
and find that burning desire
nights will burn away like fire
there's no point in feeling alone
once it's felt it's never gone
because we are all connected, so deep
the sound of trees will lull us to sleep
dreaming, wishing, it's now a duty
to find the hope, the faith in beauty
it always feels so fresh and new
every time i dance with you

As fast as ocean sweeps the bay
legs of crescent carry away
a sea of wonder that will reject
the sweetest moons you collect
in the palm of your hand soft as peach
slender spine strains to reach
the sun in the sky too far for advice
on speaking to creatures fragile as ice
because the sweetest girl, dear Josephine
shielded by blue instead of green
has a smile painted upon the wall
from the museum fortress she dare not fall
because the places we venture will seem
only to exist before in your dreams
never so lonesome as an unshared bed
cluttered with thoughts of remorse instead
slamming doors in the old broken home
cover the windows high with stones
when travels far and wide resume
remember your home is always the moon.

Sometimes I think about what Creation  sees
Like the beauty of children playing in mud streets
There snow fakes, never fall where they run and play
Playgrounds are unknown, and the roads are not paved

The wisdom, in the face of the elderly
Their eyes, where knowledge is carried gracefully
Each line tells all of  their life's untold stories
Gray hairs are given as a crown of glory

Or when ocean waves crash down on shorelines
The majesty of them, given by design
And the power in them, as they come rolling in
Yet there is life that finds safety therein

How from little tiny seedlings, big trees are grown tall
And new life is given when they die and fall
But birds, make a home in them as they grow up strong
Raising a family as if they belong

Or a couple getting married, all the love in their eyes
The wedding ceremonies meaning that's implied
How before everyone there they make their life decree
To love each other throughout eternity

So very much more than these things have come to be
Even me, all these things, given the chance to see

Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born day of the prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggle boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bowtie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

cufflinks, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabres,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, semblance of queen.

"you should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.
she strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.

crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of mediterranean sand,
and wind enraptured with brown strand.

light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent,to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray.

to see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a godess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possible go,
to prom, with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know, where I could place my glance.

wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautfiul free hand,
the colour red, from hearts inkstand.

class bell rings, I travel to mansion dream,
blue grass meet oriel in cul de sac seam.
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

only a glassmaker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

a princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Greece, mansion corinthian column,
for her, from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said.
my name, as I shunned from last chance,
back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.
*
I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses,
still, I see her, as lights flicker out, and a coffin closes.

There is romance to the bee, sweet honey and flowers. I am a flower. The flower head lady on bathroom stalls of bars, naked, drawn in chalk. I speak not of beauty, and I want nothing sweet. In my dreams I taste the ocean. I am a flower. I need the bee to land on me, to grace me. Because the bee completes a vital part of my life. I am human because I am afraid. Because the bee will sense my fear and it will sting me and it will die. I am a masochist because I want it to sting me. I want it to hurt. I am sorry because I know that I will take something vital away from it. It will leave a sliver of its essence inside of me, that’s just the way the world works. I am afraid of taking that thing on, it is really nothing more than a fragile cone of cells, and my skin will absorb and destroy it before it can pollinate anything as sweet as the flower. All of these things are true, true and beautiful lies. Because I am not a flower. And yes, I want to be stung. And I am not afraid of that pain, in fact I will relish in it. I am not the pretty flower nor the sweet honey. Maybe I am the stinger of the bee. A sharp pang, thorn and swollen flesh, and maybe a bruise that will ache and yellow. There will be anger that blossoms out of fear and the cold clear rush that brings life into every forgotten cell of the body; these are the things that belong to the stung. And who among us does not long to be stung?

I gave you the ocean and all her waves.
I gave you my heart til the end of my days.
I asked you why are you always so tense?
It all came down to dollars and cents.

i found a strand of your hair
tangled in my bed sheets
drowning in the ocean we once sailed on
lost

the cardigan you wore
hangs on thin wire in my closet
moths feast on pale pink fabric
and pretend they are butterflies

we planted seeds in pots of dirt
making promises of daisies with calloused hands
only for flowers to wilt
when their parched roots were forgotten

a locket laid on your chest
chain links of cold steel locked to your neck
weighing down where sanity meets
it's tainted vessel

frames hold glimpses of smiles
tucked into neat postures
we held for days
ignoring the tired burn of weakened muscles

stale coffee in chipped cups
staining brown rings at white bottoms
when left unwashed
for clear tall glasses of haziness

butts of cigarettes in pools of grey ash
where fumes were inhaled and exhaled
for clean lungs to breathe
and moist tongues to taste

through touches of soft bed sheets
wilted flowers and coffee mugs
i hear footsteps on front porches
bringing breathy whispers of redemption
fingers like branches reaching for gentle warmth

new frames to be bought
chains to repair
beds to be made

found

I'll show you where the bad ones go,
Land of nightmares and submarines,
Submerging you into the ocean of your tears,
You'll be wrapped in a blanket of your biggest fears.

The trees whisper your secrets, they see everything,
The clouds cry tears for you, but their tears, acid,
And you'll drown in their misery for your misery,
You'll forever scream, “Can't you see what you've done to me?”

The things in your dreams, imagine them,
Are now mutilated at the seams, imagine that,
And imagine that, now you're dead, dead, dead,
dead, dead, blood red, you've lost your head.

You're falling faster, you wish you hadn't been bad now,
I told you I'll show you where the bad ones go,
You didn't believe me the slightest bit, but you should,
If you knew this world like me, you'd kill yourself, you would.

End it all, end it all before it gets any worse,
But it's going to continue to hurt, you're going to continue to bleed,
I hope your fears are scary, tears are red, hopes are dead,
Don't look at me, you heard what I said.

I hope your hopes are dead.
You left me dead.
I'll show you where the bad ones go.
You left me dead.

-qtsp- 5/24

I am pretty sure my love will be leaving me soon
for a woman whose skirt does not lift in the zephyr of her sadness:
we kiss and we tie
maraschino cherry stems with our tongues. The
same labyrinth puts rosy skin in our teeth, here is his pubic hair
knotted with saliva. When I think I have everything,
it just means that we are stuck together –
I realize it does not mean that we are happy together. I think
someone poisoned the water
with glue, and it is I who dispenses more to let my love escape me.
He is as happy as a child who has finished a puzzle
except for a single missing piece, repeating the movements
again and again. That has got to bring it back.
For seven months, we have been handed the gift of pretending I
can feel the inner-workings of who he is and why he is
and I am pretty sure he knows he never has
to pretend again. It is there in the silences: across the room,
across the ocean where hundreds of babies have died,
babes with mothers and fathers and parents who weren’t divorced.
All I hear is my love toying with a Rubik’s cube
he never learned to complete. I have a Magic 8 ball saying
I should let him go. I mostly worry about telling my mom, who will
tell my therapist and then we will have to
close too many doors. As long as I am sad, they are locked. A
key is stuck in the mud or in someone’s molars –
my room is empty, the air is quiet, and he has not even left me yet.

I am an ocean.
And
you have
polluted every
inch
of me.