Light danced across the hardwood floor of her irises,
reflecting deep rays of brown, fire-painted oak wood into the
absorbing glass of his sea-foam green, windowframe eyes.
A now forgotten word was mellifluously sung;
curtains leaden with longing were reluctantly drawn.
The luminous sun then ceased to hang canvases of
oak and sea
on their abstractive walls,
diverging instead to displays murals of perspective
into the windowpanes of distant eyes.
Then, like black and white keys
being poignantly pressed by the fluency of fingertips,
the edges of their eloquent lips
began to touch

One more
cigarette

One less thought
captured by my notebook

I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow

Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption

I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees

I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets

Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing

One more, One less

One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone

I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"

But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less

You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!

Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe

Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means

And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag

And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution

One more thought,
One less execution.


--


I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth

What the **** are you laughing at?








Duck.

Articles of clothing,
writ by the wearer,
Particles of loathing,
spit by the swearer

We wear our souls on our sleeves

hand-paid machines
print letters of jest
on wallet-proof vests

sifting society's sincerity
through media's selective filter
cleverly diffusing the difference
between adverbs and adverts

Green is the new black

Trading black paper
for greener souls

-or-

Greed is the new snack

Feeding omnipotent omnivores
with insatiable goals

The bell sighs,
"Let freedom toll."

I love getting lost in the sounds of overwhelming amounts of
conversational noise.

Picking up small pieces of endlessly
formed sentences.
Being found in the lost patterns of
blurred translations

I think of when I was younger.

When I would fall asleep
in large rooms filled with unnamed faces, with memories
blank in remembrance
but full in substance.  

Eyelids weighed down
with the light blanket
of implications,
rather than the heavy coat
of understanding.

Soft whispers filled ears.
Confided arms lifted the weightlessness of youth,
carrying half opened eyes of
trusted transitions.

Between forearms and pillows;
hospital beds and graves.