I miss being a kid
and strolling through rows of books in a quiet library -
scanning titled spines and waiting for some divine revelation;
a serendipitous instance of the sudden realization that
this is the one, I can feel it!

Slipping it out of its place on the shelf slowly,
as if it were a sacred and fragile thing.
Reading the dust jacket and thinking:
Yes! This is it!

Opening it slowly, (is it weird to say something about savoring its scent?) and reading a few scattered sentences, enthralled, before closing it quickly and clutching it close;
head scanning left to right to make sure the coast is clear.

*No one must know that I've found it.
They all thought I was nuts. They called me crazy,
but I knew it'd all work out if I continued to believe.
I've finally found the most magical book in the whole wide world;
the one that's been written
just.
for.
me.

Parked the part of myself I'm not so hot about
too close to the part of you that gets fired up
by the proximity of an engine in heat.

It's funny how
lack of sleep will hit you.
It's six in the morning,
and I,
I'll tear up at almost anything now.
All sense of sanity
hindered by delirium
but I think of you.
Maybe I'm insane,
maybe I'm delusional,
but at six in the morning,
I still love you.

Dandelion seeds in the wind,
the sun burning in her hair,
and she bathes in that light
with a sheen of delight
dancing across her lips,
pressing outwards against
the crimson velvet rope
of her physical boundaries.

Were it a dream, she'd fly
with those monarchs
that so well contrast
her gradient eyes.

I just can't stop
replaying it in my head
over and over
again and again.

Soaked sneakers and Jesus,
I felt like a god
and tasted heaven
on your lips.

The sweat sheet cleaned
our muddy feet
and then I found myself
in your hips.

Oh, what a suit;
what fine noble thread,
below blinding pearly whites
and such a nice hair of head.

"Lose a little now to gain twice as much later.
Don't be a dope," (schmuck, fool, sucker.)
That's what he said through sharpened teeth.
I should've known better than to believe a single thing.

A wolf invited himself inside and talked me into buying his sheepskin suit, but it turns out that he was a fox disguised as a wolf in sheep's clothing, and so I bought the wolf's skin too.

"A two-for-one deal,
whaddaya say?"


I can't believe I fell for a walking cliché.

I cleaned my room today.
It started with the closet.
I tried everything on, and based on the fit, decided whether or not to toss it.
(I mean, donate.)
I filled two boxes.

Then I went in a clockwise motion from there, attacking and reorganizing everything I came across.
I took **** near everything out of my room so that I could mop it.
Then I put everything back in,
got drunk while watching Netflix in a very clean room,
and eventually wrote a ****** poem about it.

The twisted carpet entangling toes.
The overgrown paths that lead to places no one ever goes.
The odds and ends of where-to-begin's and stammering out the sentence,
"Nobody knows."

I have a hand and somehow all five digits are still intact.
Clutching at thin attempts to make an impact.
Slipping through fingers.

I fell in love with a dancer once,
back before I'd come-of-age.
I was sitting in the audience with my family,
and she was up on-stage
along with five other dancers:
two couples and her partner.

The guys all dressed the same.
The girls all dressed the same.  
And yet this one stood out to me for reasons unexplained.
It wasn't just her pretty face -
In fact, all three were pretty -
but something in the grace she moved with,
as if she were the epitome of beauty.  

They wove in-and-out of each other in a spiraling ballet.
I strained to keep my gaze trained on her form,
as if she were the pearl in a gypsy's shell game
and I had my life-savings riding on the outcome.

The steps grew more dramatic.
The partners recoiled from each other.
The lights grew dim, for a second,
then the music crescendoed,
and with a grand flourish each couple reunited then froze in place.

A look of horror on my face as I realized the loveliest dancer's partner had made a mistake:
the hem of her skirt had got caught on the hand that was now on her waist,
and a black-leotarded wedge between her legs was on display for however many glorious, grueling, stomach-churning seconds that pose was held for until the lights went out.

The performance left me feeling a mix between elated and tragic,
and I sat staring into that blackness transfixed, as if
by some kind of magic.