Soon, each of the things that I cherish the most,
like pottery formed by my hand,
will fall from its rest on the eye of a needle
and breaks into pieces of sand.

If I cannot see when the moment arrives
when something so fragile falls
from its balancing act on the tip of a pin,
will time delay for me at all?

The grey cold
lingers in the bitter air
and snow falls like ghosts
declaring here will be a sufficient place to haunt.

I wake up
A time to seek and an time to lose
not to the birds
a time to mourn and a time to dance
or the sun shining through the blinds,
a time to keep silent and a time to speak
but to banshee sobs
a time to weep and a time to laugh
and voices that were once intertwined.
a time to love and a time to hate

I stare
out the window
and onto the unrelenting days
of December Timing-
a time to keep and a time to cast away;
a time to tear and a time to sew.

For everything, there is this season.
For every matter under the sun, there is this time.

I want to stretch my broken wings
a time to die
and fly toward the hidden, hopeful
light of day that is masked behind
the gray cold.

*a time to be born

I was perched
high above the busy market streets
in the stone wall trees
across the street from your favorite cafe.

You took a seat in the patio
that overlooked the sightseers
living in the moment,
and the photographers
trying to capture the time that was moving too quickly-
knowing this moment could last forever.

I morning light was radiant
in your dark brown hair
like a glimmer of concealed hope
that you and I both share.

I glided down from my arboreal
with my wings - blemished and fragmented,
yet cheerful and warm -
dancing in the warm sea air.

I landed on the rooftop
and I sang to you,
like you've always imagined me doing.

You smiled. A sublime sight to see.
And you closed your eyes and listened,
and breathed,
realizing that time is moving too quickly,
but knowing you can capture this moment

and make it last forever.

A thin, glistening sleeve of rime
refracted the rays of sunrise light
into a bright and shiny morning.

I stood tall amongst the resonance of the
distant hymn of birds,
trying to conceal my
quivering knees.
I took a breath of
the anticipation in the air -
the breeze preparing itself for
the coldest season of the year.

I'm in motion now,
realizing that time goes on,
but unable to comprehend that
time is going right now.

Yet I have my Compass
and I have my Map.
I will sing melodies of hope
for the wind of Winter to carry away.

For I am convinced that
the distant hymn of birds
is the melody of hope
you, too, sing into the wind.

This boat,
sailing on these synapses of rivers,
was leaking badly
and was starting to sink;
my old oars could not take me ashore.

But an immaculate current,
conducted by a divine crescendo,
pushed the waves to land.

I finally slept on the shore
and light shone through the fog.

The marketplace (the one I admire
from the opposite side of earth)
is adorned with
best prices,
city memorabilia,
and vendors willing
to drop their prices for
the Western Civilization.

This is the gaudy side of town.

But just on the other side
of the crowded booths
is a bay that opens
to the sea adorned with
sunny afternoons,
crashing waves,
and books in hand and toes in the sand.

Your peaceful solace outshines
my tranquil plains adorned with
fallen leaves,
barren trees,
and the whispers of poetry that
is in the wind and
in the blue and orange sunsets.

Yet we are in solace together.

"I'm taking care of myself, and I miss you too"

You're a river...

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
your self.

Your self ought to know
it's over now.
It's all.

Your sigh's alone -
Your soul.

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
Your soul.

You're so far alone,
you're full of life -
your soul.

You sat alone by my side
the fire burned
radiantly*.

: I'd rather be in the middle of
nowhere
with you

than be on the edge of
everything
with anyone else.

In my anxious sleep,
I dreamt of a road
that divided the ocean
into a Northern Kingdom
and a Southern Kingdom.

I started my journey from the shoreline.
As I stepped onto the path
my legs began to move on their own accord,
as if they were magnetically attracted
to their final destination.

I moved without haste,
with a tempo of a maestro
conducting the symphony of a chaotic Armageddon.

The waves crashed against the road,
but my feet were warm and dry.
The sea creatures of the deep emerged from the abyss,
but my body was at peace.

I saw the lighthouse-
the journey's end;
she gleam resplendently
on the opposite shore.

I sprinted toward her
through the soles of my shoes
down to the bares of my feet.

To be in her light again...

Only to be awoken by my anxious consciousness
in the darkness of the early dawn.

We hit the prairie
with the windows rolled down.
As the sun started to set,
you took off your shoes-
your barefeet on the dash.
You lit a cigarette
and the glow as you inhaled
revealed marks of a very great adventure.

We let our hair grow long together
because it looked cool
when the wind
ruffled it a bit.

"I wish we could drive forever", you said.

I agreed:
We could have chased the sun for the rest of our numbered days,
because we knew it would be the only thing
we could hold on to.

An amber leaf twirls upon its spindle branch
(Please do not hope for anything more,)
But hope is all I have

but was interrupted by the winds.
(for you know nothing about the way things are.)
to carry me through these cold days

And the amber blade breaks away from its home
(Find someone to sweep you off your feet,)
until I find someone to simply fly by my side.

and is carried away with the breeze*
(because that someone cannot simply be me)
Do you think that someone could be you?

Imagine your eyes
as bluegreenhazelgrayamber
windows to actuality.

Now imagine your eyes
s lo   w lllllllly

f
      a
              d

                      i
                    
                             n
              
                                    g

to






black.

we still rise to the same sun
we still sleep under the same moon
we still read the same words
we still hum the same tunes
we still feel the same joy
we still feel the same blues
we still play the same songs
we still know this to be true:

we still forget to let go
but we still manage to say i love you.

Saudade)
This is a division;
a dissection of blood cells;
a severance of the colors on a canvas.
Separating waters - Moses' staff in the air.
We are singing parting songs into each other's eyes
because we are slurring our words across the pavement.
One final moment slips through the palms of our hands,
flows through the back of our minds,
and calls our hearts to break.
This is goodbye.

Retrouvailles)
And, after all of this,
I will see you again in
the brightness of dawn,
the twilight of dusk.

I will see you again in
the blossoms of Spring,
in the fervor of Summer,
in the colors of Autumn,
in the snowflakes of Winter.

I will see you again.
This is hello.

A 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera
A mixtape
Valentines Day

A tuxedo
A seafoam green dress
Prom night

A starlit road
A taste of your lips
Spring

A weeping embrace
A slamming door
Summer

An empty bedroom
A bottle of gin
Autumn

A silent girl
A disturbed boy
Winter

"I don't love you like I did yesterday"

The Mill sits comfortably among the sea of red.
Unwavering, unyielding, and thriving.

Cafe Espresso and oolong tea.

The booths are occupied with
reminiscence of the glory days,
contentment between mothers and daughters and sons and fathers,
appreciation of music and art and literature.

All the while sunlight illuminated
the scarf and the starfish
of the girl across from me

as our minds were slowly revealed to one another.

It's birthday season
and the leaves are falling.

So it's kind of ironic.

Birth and death
in perfect harmony with one another.

Blossom all you'd like,
your leaves will turn
yellows and reds,

maybe sooner than you'd think.

All of the free spirits
are flying so high.
Happier than a child
on Christmas morning.

However,

the truth of the matter is
it'll all end

maybe sooner than you'd think

and it will flow like oil.

It will grip like a lion's jaw
sinking into the flesh of my neck.

Nothing's about to change.
The vicious cycle of
reminiscence to
recession to
unresponsiveness
is a gift that just keeps on ******' giving.

Until I have nothing left to give.

I'm finished.

When the
song bird
is gone;
when the
evening chills
settle in
your bones;
when the
hills are
too high;
when the
waters are
too deep -

the world
needs you
to let
your light
shine.

We never spoke words,
we only compiled songs.

We understood every connotation
behind every tune.

The way I look at it,
a mixed tape is a poem.
Each song is a stanza,
every note is a feeling,
and every emotion
is in perfect likeness with the one who sent it.

Let us keep our fondest memories
clutched close to our chests.

For if they are lost,
the wind will sweep them away
or the sea will toss them into its abysmal blue.

Rather, let us tie them to the laces of our shoes -
              and take them always with us.
Tattoo them onto our intellects -
              and reminisce upon them often.
Lock them in our hearts
              Do not let them die until they
              all
              stop
              beating.

I can only imagine
flying kites with you
as the sun sets
and the stars cross.

Does sleep visit you often?
How do you lay upon your bed?
Do you ride the REM drug?
Do you dream?
Do your eyes dry and crumble?
Can you feel anything?
Do you wake up in a cold sweat?
Do you wake up tasting colors?

Do you wake up wising you were someone else?

And busting forth,
I found a new Joy.
I was called out of this darkness
into this glorious Light.

A firefly. A firework. A kaleidoscope. A galaxy of flames.

I will not be cut down and be scattered
among the legions of sand.
My roots will grow
deeper.
My palms will flourish;
my heart strengthen.

The writing on my soul
will never be vandalized or destroyed.

For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.
There your heart will be also.

I dreamt I had potpourri for supper.
I had candle wax for dessert.
I walked home on a Persian rug.
and I slept on a bed of blueberries.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I was swinging on a wooden swing
hanging freely from Orion's belt.
Waves of something.odd and something.frightening
splashed on my bare feet.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I climbed onto the back of a Chimera,
and flew over Peloponnese.
And saw the splendor of Olympia,
and I thought I saw God sitting His throne.
I reached out to touch His hand,
and fell to the depths of Oblivion.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

It just was.
And I awoke to the reality of gravity.

What brings me here are multiple *** and cokes
and my lasting impression on so many of the
cool kids and the following broads
who think this is a cool thing to do.

Me? I feel my eyes start to fall red
and my face starts to resonate heat.

*****? No, I'm not at that point.

Yet.

But I can see spots of light and feel my ears pop.
This is my life in a bunny costume.

In a Deadmau5 head my roommate crafted,
I DJ a basement of partyheads.
I smoke my cheap cigarettes and think
"wow, what would my mother think?".

I have never thought how this would spin my world upside down.
But this is Spring Weekend. And the dance floor is open
to new adventures and brilliant encounters with strange people.

I can only imagine how God is looking at me now.

We are under a tornado warning.
As I look outside my window,
it appears we have reached the calm before the storm.

The ghosts are occupying the sky,
yelling and firing their guns.
Tears falling upon the heads of the breathing.

I only want to see the sun.
I frantically claw toward the sky.
But I am showered by a million little specks
of a war only Mother Nature understands.

I could dance.
Swing my body under a luminescent streetlight.
Feel my shoes and socks become more and more heavy.
Until my toes are unable to move.

Or maybe I should be more cautious, more vigilant.
maybe I should protect myself from
"life-threatening" danger.
But maybe I deserve it.
Maybe this is the perfect storm for me.
Maybe I shouldn't act like I am comfortable at all.

No more acting.
We have reached the calm before the storm.
Now I'm ready for my curtain call.

How dare I
get my hopes up and
think you would ever come around
and realize that maybe,
just maybe,
this olive branch would blossom?

Never listen to speculations.
Never trust the messenger.

Always **** the messenger.

He took a snapshot of me in the rain
in front of the vacant house where
ghost lifted the dust and
suspended the rocks like a puppeteer.

He called the shot
A Thousand Different Versions of Your Soul
and he swore, if it takes a community to raise a child,
then a thousand different people ******* me up.

I walked back to my house under an umbrella
with the polaroid of my incertitude tucked close to my heart
I pulled down every Vonnegut book from the shelf,
took the Holy Bible from its case,
called Plath up from her grave,
and asked them what the hell my life meant, anyway.

Vonnegut told me to travel to Titan.
There I will fall in love with the beautiful Sirens
and die with the aliens of Tralfamadore.

The Holy Bible told me to carry His cross
to Golgotha,
so He could die for
the salvation from my sins.

Plath told me to keep on writing.
Then I will live until I'm thirty,
and die in with my head in
my kitchen oven.

All provided valid arguments
on why my heart keeps beating
and why the thousand different versions of my soul
haven't crawled out of my throat yet.

We make a mess of beautiful things.
We scatter them across our floor like snow.
We lay in beds of pictural dreams
that nobody else but us know.

Moments upon moments of color ring
around our heads as we grow and grow
with grace upon grace held in our hands
like God himself is fighting for our side.

It's funny, I awoke from this dream with such open eyes
and to my surprise it were your eyes that cried.
If anything, it was I who deserved those tears.
We make a mess of beautiful things...

For a
moment

I thought I (love)d you.

It's a tough word, it really is,
when you're sobbing behind a bottle,
bleeding red wine from the corners of your mouth.
It would be simpler to express this sober,
but you know as well as anyone
no one's ever sober anymore.

The inebriates are saying "happy ******* Valentine's Day"
to everyone who decided to break the glass the past year.
The antidepressants are speeding up my heart beat,
praying that this time it'll be my name you're crying about.

Even if it's for the wrong reason.

I listen to the pulse of my beating heart.
It's a feeling I might never forget.
Hell, I use it as an alarm clock.
I wake up and tie my shoes at night.
And when I walk down the city blocks,
I use it as a warning call.

The dim street lights can be deceiving.

"You want light? I'll flicker and cut out
to make your night adventure a bit more eerie".

It's as if someone is floating above me,
lighting a cigarette with a dying lighter,
and once the flame is gone
I am dark. No shadow to follow me anymore.

It's hard to walk alone with a kickdrum heart.

He knows where he is at.
His while t-shirt clings to his sweat soaked skin
and he waits for another chance to waste his breath
on the walking skeletons.

He walks outside with a hole in his umbrella
to wash away the salt from his arms
but to protect his face from the water
to make sure the walking skeletons know he was crying earlier.

When the sky falls,
he will catch the pieces in his mouth
like he did during winter.
He will recite his opinions on why he should die
in front of the walking skeletons,
while he slowly loses his skin himself.

She walks next to me
like she'll walk next to me
forever.

Breathe. Breathe (more).
(Move closer) to your death and (farther away) from your youth
(Open your mouth) and (taste) the stale (air).
Transfer your weight onto a (firm surface).
Push your (face) against the glass.
Do you (feel) closer? (Now?) (How about now?)
How about you (try to forget your feelings and run?)
(Turn) and (scream) and (fall) and (grow) and (give) and (burn) and (sing) and (glean) and (die) and (fall) and (in love) and (with you).

The wind is shaking the trees and blowing through the hair
of people walking to their destinations
like the world is going to end if they don't make it
in time.

I cautiously say this because
I am one of them, running from place
to place -
anxiety storms around me like the gust.

I imagine those who don't make it in time,
frozen cold by the closing of a door.
Or brokenhearted by a hand in someone else's.
What happens after that?
What happens if these people don't make it in time?

God knows time won't wait.

I truly believe happiness
is listening to your hometown heroes
play their final show at their favorite venue
and crying with them as they play their final song.

And everyone in the crowd sings along.

It's always been a dream of mine-
a dream as big as the state of Nebraska,
but they've taught me, my hometown heroes,
that hope IS a good thing.

And my hometown is Lincoln. And my hometown is where dreams come true.

Let the neon lights speak for themselves.
They'll sing my eulogy, I know that for sure.

"What a bright man he was,
always making sure we illuminated the downtown sidewalks
for the boozers and the streetwalkers to see.
See? He wasn't so bad after all-
he helped ease pain".

When you bury me,
bury me with my favorite drink,
and nourish the soil with *****.

There's a movement in the air
that's causing everyone to
wake up before the sun rises
hold hands with their hatred
make a painting of all there is to love
listen to a crescendo of anything that makes sound
kiss the hands of everyone they met
travel the map to find the lost
and finally
skip to the last chapter in their books
to read their happy ending.

I lit a fire tonight
upon my grandfather's old typewriter.

I kindled it with all of his old pencils,
his favorite ballpoint pen,
his yellow-paged novels,
his newspaper cutouts of his past successes.

Hell, I even threw in the bookshelf.

And, just like that,
it was mortal history.
I did it for the **** of it.

I mean, if it was REALLY important,
it would be sprawled all over webpages.
Sprawled all over online searches and
digital databases.

Trust me, grandpa,
the future looks much better in High Definition.

I asked him to play the riff he wrote, out of a spark of brilliance, on his guitar.
And as I close my eyes,
his finger pluck away at the strings
as softly as my grandmother passed in her sleep.
(I knew she would love this sound-
she was always a sucker for guitars)

I close my eyes and hum a melody.
He closes his eyes and strums.
And for a moment I am with her again,
clinging to the last bit of memory I have left of her.

I finally get to tell her goodbye.

We'll know how far we've gone
once the ocean stops and we see
Los Angeles
set on fire by streetlights
carlights
spotlights
from the passenger window.

We'll know how far we've gone
once we see the giant orange chasm,
the blistering white snowtop mountains
and the crystal azure rivers
from the passenger window.

We'll know how far we've gone
when we see the amber waves
of grain that I grew up singing about
whispering in the Nebraska wind
and see the capital building
busting out of the fields.

We'll know we're home
when the plane touches solid ground.

Had you entered my room
at a quarter till nine,
you have have found me painfully asleep,
with weeping and gnashing of teeth,
muffled by the pillow
my face was consumed within.

Nightmares
about dying from a broken heart
and living with a breaking one.
My father holding his collapsing chest,
and my Wish finally laid to rest.

The best of me seems to digress.
My jaw grinding,
grinding, grinding,
grinding unti the alarm sounds.
And as I lay minding the
terror-laden rest,
my heart starts beating out of my petrified chest.

I.

He carried the weight of his World on his back.
Backpacking from the house to the oven
to the house to the oven
to the house to the oven
to the broken house he called his own.
His World was a paranoid wife,
a broken son,
and a heartbroken daughter.
No one ever offered to carry his cross.

II.

She paces back and forth
in the confines of the kitchen
and finally breaks down,
slouching down against the cabinets.
The pills inch their way down her throat,
and her tears wash them down
to the very depths of her soul.

III.

His eyes are bloodshot and glazed
as he holds the blue glass that burns with
the smell of illegal freedom.
He exhales a sigh of smogrelief,
letting the real world disintegrate
and entering the Hallucination world,
where nothing can pierce his skin.

IV.

She stares at the face on the computer screen.
A young boy - blond hair and green eyes.
He stares at another girl in the photo,
her hair blond and her eyes green.
The computer screen starts to crack,
and she realizes that so is this youngheart love.
If only she knew how love really hurt.

Everyday there's a growing
that stretches through the cracks of the ground
while my feet conscientiously step on them,
because if you step on a crack,
you'll break everyone's back.

This growing has blue eyes,
sapphireblue eyes,
oceanwater blue.
The Tempter. The serpent that
crawls freakishly across my feet.

Shall I smash his head against my heel?
No, his eyes. These sapphireblue eyes
oceanwater blue. They're
intruguing.

And if this sin is something that will break everyone's back.
I'm going to step on each one
until every hospital bed is full.

I am writing this from the bottom of my heart
where all of the strings have snapped.
Quietly, a cascade of smolder shrouds my face,
finally putting my my mind to rest,
if only for a moment.

If there were any melody,
any melody at all,
that can get me by,
pour me a glass and let me be.

It's cold outside.
I think the tears are freezing to my cheeks.
My nervous hands struggle to write this.
But I need to ask one question:

Why does this life have to be so hard?

Once I saw your face pressed against the picture window,
I sprinted.
The soles of my shoes were deteriorating,
but bare-feet was always the way I imagined this

Our reunion.

Three pints and a pipe.
One brother talking to another.
Honestly, I thought I'd never see you again.

And now
I know that you will never be as far away as I imagined.

There's tea brewing in the kitchen
that may or may not be ready.
I haven't heard that proverbial whistle
yet.

You introduced me to Oolong tea
a few years ago at that cafe downtown.
You drew me a picture of a sad boy
in a collared shirt and unkempt hair.

You said it was me.

I drew you a picture of a butterfly
with a beautiful wing pattern

I said it was you.
You never noticed one of the wings were torn.

You never really knew why I did that,
didn't you?
Well, words are fleeting now, and-

Oh. My tea is ready.

The pizza boxes
the empty beer cans.
The pipe smokes
the remaining indulgence.

Fractions of time were lost
(probably a few brain cells, too).
I was floating within my synapses
that were shooting this familiar indulgence
back and forth.
They were thinking:

"Why the **** is he doing this again?"

Once you feel this numb, feel free to answer that question.

I'm outside
and the Nebraska sunset is more than welcoming.
Orange and warm,
the birds begin to weep.

From my hand
I drop my werewolves.
All just for one more sight -
From my eyes
the Nebraska sunset glistened.

I danced.