The smell that you love
Of freshly cut grass
Is only green leaf volatiles
From when the plant has been hurt

Its only trying to save itself
It only suffered a pain unspoken
That we as man
Enjoy

How can I really live?
When the scent of a just-mowed lawn
Is only tragedy
That brings me pleasure

Its only trying to heal itself
From injury which man inflicted
That I can't help
But love

"don't grow up too fast
you still have time
to be a child"
you say to me

The difference between us
is that you wish to be a child
whereas I
never want to be one again

your childhood
was playing foursquare
and lava monster
and avoiding the cheese-touch
with your three best friends

my childhood
was being kept out of foursquare
ignored by the lava monster
and being the untouchable object
in my class's game of "Beth-touch"

your childhood
was a playful push and poke
with your classmates

my childhood
was getting my front tooth chipped
and being pushed off of the monkey bars

your childhood
was seeing your parents argue
then make up

my childhood
was hearing shouting upstairs
and seeing my parents sitting apart silently for hours afterward

your childhood
was hoping your mother's flu got better

my childhood
was my mom falling and twisting her arm
on the way to a meeting with the principal
hard enough that her hand still isn't the same size

your childhood
was learning weird new things
through rumors, friends, and what you could find

my childhood
was being left in the dark
on all but the basics

your childhood
was fun elementary school trends
like lunchables, messenger bags, and chocolate calculators

my childhood
was having a different style
and having no common interests with the other kids

your childhood
was a playful time of learning
that you wish to return to

my childhood
was the role of the playground's pariah
and I'm never going back

Sledgehammer
Glass heart
Should've known
From the start

That by the time
We would collide
I'd be left broken
on the inside

you are being.
pointillation
along this
broken
pale
blue dot

lit

with focus
and swarming intent,
strange, and
sometimes dark, yet

true enough:

your words do not simply word
but world
things

into existence;

your mere gaze,
ten thousand and ten gods clod in daisy chains,
whose glance together moves matter into wave,

history into potential origin
re-eden'd, new again;

your light,
never flawed or sinful,
always already
there and
so ******* perfect.

everything feels wrong,
but feels so right.

all the devils
are here
in drag.

worry not poet,
you are only light that matters.

so, play the role.
be somebody.
and make me swim
inside your pointillist earthing spoken,
cursor sojourning
across the blank page that awaits
the next line.

If God had to go back
to work on Monday
Bet he would have invented, then rested,
More days than just Sunday.

I'm cursing my alarm--
Using, in vain, the name of his son.
Wishing that God would have rested
More days than just one.

There is one time during twilight when meet two lovers
and discreetly, behind sunset's cover, they first
must dance round each other's girth  
under dusky sky then, in russet-style soon couple.    

Sparks fly as Dark embraces Light for at his touch stars
rush to the scene, blue blushes red at confessed
union, hues meld in wild expression
before Dark has to stay and reluctant Day departs.

Grey is then dominant shade as waits setting silence
with bated breath until comes change to wrench
paired bliss again as rays descend
'til morning breaks loose from ******* to night.

When Dark and Light next unite dawn knows well
it will be but moments before their goodbye      
but used to addiction hours will fly
toward  flickering chance as time ties them again.