I see the lot, denominated in slots, automated in spots, weakest to the plot, and I'm not, convinced it is wrong, nor minced in my longing for a song, a song to the sum, to the sun, to the one unto the ones unto none, nada, nothing, but a hum from beyond, a rumbling from a haunt, stumbling from a heart, belonging to a spark that departed a long-long time ago, where it started, and I'll go-go back there for the harp, for the halo, for the art of it, standing on the stars, apart, but a part of it, I'll go for the horns, for the dark, and for the parts discarded, I will, try my hardest, to remain in progress, a battery that charges for the harvest of the starkest of the larvae unto the fiercest flies, unto spider webs in fragile skies, finite lines up high, where I'll die knowing I flew, die knowing the truth, the use, the abuse, the ruse, the heights of my sight, igniting in the lie, in the cries, so distant now, but a distinctive growl from yesteryear's child so mild, so wild as to be outed by a new sound, so profound as to drown the complexity out, and simply shout from anyone's mouth, reading out-loud and clear, my cloud, my thoughts, my fear, left right here on a single space, where I placed it and saved it away in the seventh day of this resting case, that is all but closed, a screen saver transposed as knowns exposed, and I'm aroused in knowing the doubts are clothed in lace, soaked on display for my placation's of our days, the daze, hazily grazing on the safe, the fates, locked in a slate, for later placement to a shape, I'm hate, wrapped in a hopeful taste, waiting for a saying to say it all,  ~ I'm spaced.

Do this, do that, once consumed my mind.
Be anxious for nothing, to this I was blind.

small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

imagine infinity, tenderness, a suave delta
the touch of amber whispers
archaic thrill
higher&higher; into devotion
light decompressed in desire
the discipline of time in terror

I stumble in this yielding silence
you're an ****** field
held captive in the fabric of my skin
darkness spins around my thighs
I kneel
I ignite in a prayer to a self-dissolving god
inside the temple of your ribs

dance my raving one,
dance
this is an offering
a mayday in trance
the night has reached from afar
its solar desire

A thin piece of glass
separated me
from the destiny
I was born to cross
Its reflectance beckoned me
like a piece of gold dangling from a string
Hypnotized by the light
My soul stepped through
Breathing tiny shards of crystal
My lungs coated with divine vanity

I am but a cross

It’s been thirteen months and I’ve forgotten your scent. I don’t remember the way it feels for your fingertips to brush against my bare skin. I can’t recall the spark that would reignite every time our lips came in contact. I can’t remember the way your tongue would taste in the early hours of the day. I don’t even remember what your voice sounded like whispering through the phone at 5am. But it’s been thirteen months, and I won’t dare forget the way it felt to watch you walk out of my life just as quickly and unexpectedly as you walked into it.

And if I could write
and recite
these happenings within my mind
one can only wander
what words one could find
to describe
what one has never understood
and if I could
there'd be no need to bleed
a pen of its ink
if only I had the ability
to decipher what I think.