My kettle sits on the stove,
My mind blends with the walls painted beige.
It secedes.
The thoughts are bound and timed.
Though released, half remain inside.

Standard lines for a futurist agnostic
The present presents a snowy rustic
But what of the faces and spaces that speak to me.
Have we not all been what we wanted to want to be?

My arms reach into the blue
Solitude,
Magnitude,
Saturated markets in the human condition
Intoxicating predispositions in an ideal so sober.
I awake to a lukewarm kettle, nothing boiled over.

Hello little cup of tea. It's strange I met you here, just now. The day was the crashing waves of automobile noise pollution, but the night hums an electronic melody. Go ahead now, pour your nature in my preserved, artificial frame. I beg you to make me feel the providential roots in every tree. I'll whisper bedtime tales of tragedy and glory. But for now, I sip you in alongside the dusty air.

You. You'll never read these words, beneath a sullen sky. You'll never feel the gravel cold with little stones and dirt rolling on the canyons of your fingertips. I don't have the answers, the turmoil transfer, or the drafts release.

My dearest friend, where are the chirping of the birds. Segacious cliffs, my fear of heights. They're darkened by rowdy shallows. Craft. I cannot, but you may, but when you fail someday, hide my face. Reminiscent drops on a puddled tripe.

You. Swallow your stiffened words. I promise, friend, the day will not clear, but your stride will strengthen, your head will straighten, and all that is said will have been said, life's verbatim.

"All galaxies are indeed moving apart at an ever increasing rate"
It's the saddest thing I've ever heard
Don't they know it will be too late?
They'll burn up only to leave
The vacuum space between

Adaptive we say
Time and decay
But morals and friendships-
drugs and hugs and spark plugs,
Surely they're meant to remain?
Not fall like autumn's leaves or spring's rain and grow anew or cycle through...but stay?

If I could press a memory in this book I'd fill the pages
Instead these images press my brain
And my memory beckons and pleads
"Am I still able?"

Tell me so.
Do we start, what we always know will end?


3


2


1

go.

I wrote the summer long ago, and asked her to be kind. I wore down the winter bone, beckoning home, waiting for springs fine. Listen. The bow bends creaks, and banes. The swollen hope of summer wanes.

All I've ever known. Is to write these general poems. Images will flash before your eyes. But I will never let them guide you to the occurrence of my life. Every feeling I feel may be strong, but seems overly dramatic to the planets strife. This has been a brief view in my head. Enjoy these carefully constructed words of images, and build them into your life instead.

Drown me in self pity
Fill me with gravel and confetti
And I won't scream and shout, or tell anyone about the sarcastic soliloquy

Dance me into a state of disbelief
Your unsteady heartbeat,
will without fuss or pout
Tell everyone about you and me.

Follow the modest airwaves that dance on the night. Feel young in it's serene mimics and sight. Wring out the persona that illumines the night's allure. Intersect dawn and dusk, with the day and night's colure. Respond to me as if too fondly and settle your scores. Heartbeats shimmer in the roar of gentle snores.