I remember the days when we were two stupid kids,
we were eating blackberries grown on tombs
and the moon was just a big stone
the sun was leaving its last breath on.
Now I am looking for you on the Wood street
where you last time smiled at me,
on the Wood street where people eat with their hands
the remains of those burned by unhappiness,
while fools sing about love and dreams and the holes in their hearts.
I am looking for you
and I don't know whether you are a human or a dream
or the ash
that slips through my frozen fingers.
Maybe you are just the hole in my soul,
maybe the moon is more than a big stone,
maybe I loved you
maybe
you are still there somewhere
in the Sun's last breath.
Maybe it's just your smile
that has burned
covering my soul
my hands.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
*Our doubts are already forming a library
with thousands of books rising high above the wall*
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
there are too many lights in this sky,
too concerned with the black emptiness that surrounds,
that they forget their soft glimmers,
the ones that stroke desolate grasses of backyards behind homes that shiver with the turn of a doorknob, and cry with the closing of that window in the upstairs bedroom
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer
your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15
your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate
your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony
your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite
you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season, and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.
Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
I'd rather get drunk from the poison ink water running down your cheeks,
than push you down, feet first, into the ground beneath me, into that parallel eternity
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
Your pupils buzz like declining carnival lights, & your hands move like reluctance in high heels
Your phrases stumble out, knocking into that syntactical lamp post the keen call "tongue-tied".
Your shoe laces would make great ribbon pasta, with a touch of blood red sauce and olive oil tears.
Your cloudy curls hum with the activity of that misguided swarm the doctors call "agitated overthinking" .
Your arms hang long, draped with the golden moss of pubescence, weighed by the leaves & twigs that scrape the surface of logical revelation like harsh chalk.
Your voice, the uneven droplets from the faucet, wets the crevices of one's invisible compassion.
Your are the Princess of the Absurd, the red-coat orphan on a suburban, spray-painted Saturn.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
Hippie #73,
she walks like the leopard in the savana of San Francisco, the blonde peacock on the jungle throne
Hippie #73,
a product but a voice, with wings and some uncut claws
Hippie #73,
A nymph and a marcher, with a paintbrush and a posterboard
Hippie #73,
originality is wavy like the rainbow sky, but the lights are bright in the raindrop's shadow
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
in the wide opens,
desolate indoors of my room,
so many curled books alone,
far away, unarmed from me,
suffering, still, as i do apart,
in the shut in air, i can barely
breathe, with hollowed lips,
in my room, wide opens.
pretty pictures i shot,
shrivel on the plastered wall,
simple gifts I took of you
and the sun penetrates
only in muddied drops,
like desert rains tear
from the mercy skies
on to wastelands of dust.
in throws i bury myself,
with pillows of clean suture,
for the pierced heart wounds
bleeding, patched like warring tartans
indoors, i die in a meadow, bedded,
my faint breath scented with yours,
blankets blink a wild printed field,
specks all, unopened flowers.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
I remembered
I promised you a poem,
In fact one a day for our love-
There's a problem though,
I can't seem to get them out:
Because your presence
Is like a million words,
A thesaurus sitting right
Next to me,
And what you are to me
When you are with me is an
Eternal sonnet.
But when I tried I began to
Understand something that brings
My understanding of us clearer,
That we are the same in separate
Places, in the same solitude
Without knowing each other's
Pain or fatigue.
That we are both not people,
But the wind freed in our selves,
A gale freed from the conventional
And we become a sudden verse,
Nostalgic and naive,
Stubbornly young and hopeful,
There in that place,
When we are together,
I cannot write the poem
That has not yet finished
Being written.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
let my seeds push through the crevices of entrenched doubts
let my stems poke at the cobwebs of rusted assumptions
let my thorns sting back at the chill of raw honesties
let my petals conceal me like the kisses of ambiguous flattery
let my branches bridge me across the creek of negelcted assurances
& let my roots hold me down, in the soil of what is certain
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC