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
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
I express my thoughts as vividly
as the silver patches above
My sentences crawl out of me
like the uncertain nature reserve recluse
My gestures stumble outward
and trip over furrowed brows from afar
I approach you in a jagged curve
as I attempt to dodge the comically apparent
My declarations bump into a brick wall
that is graffitied with your hazy implications
My assurance is an frozen valley pond
upon which you glide across, yet to slip or fall
I attempt to make the earnest connection
only to discover the grey clouds in the distance
Oh dear oh **** oh ****
But where is that umbrella?
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Can we eat ramen in the dumpster
and discuss avoided exertions,
and obtained stimulations?
Can we eat pizza in the sewer,
and notice lackings of duty
and seized thrills?
Can we eat cereal in the warehouse,
and observe overlooked regrets,
and earnest hedonisim?
Can we eat sushi in the shed,
and plant seeds of disregard,
and ignorant gaiety?
Can we dine in the wasteland, the field, or the valley,
and watch pink clouds glide by,
and envy their destination?
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
You are the rose with fake petals
You are the diamonds worth less than lipsticks
You are the Converse with untied laces
You are the Svedka mixed with tears
You are the jacket that was thrifted,
You are the star with a light switch
You are the angel with foam wings,
You are the unseen thorn in the garden
You are the cigarette smoke that drifts
You are the needles in the dear sewing kit
You are the duchess of comfortable silence
You are the countess of disclusion
You are the sweetest pill in the box,
but the most bitter drink in the afternoon
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
Wine-soaked sundays
what a time to lounge
Wine-soaked sundays,
full of cheese and pearls
Wine-soaked sundays,
what an hour to cackle!
Wine-soaked sundays,
when the obligations melt
Wine-soaked sundays,
when we are softly raw
Wine-soaked sundays,
when ladies conduct "leisure"
Wine soaked sundays,
where the smiles conceal nothing
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC