a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped,
like an infant in the highchair,
no cherrios to eat.

mundane messes like
blood on your knee,
gravel in between;
bend, but grit your teeth.

white was so boring, though
color cannot be undone,
until a final draw ends,
and entropy starts to run.

watercolor, was it?
the dye won’t wash away.
don’t you see me,
****** by graffiti

like the coffee stains on
my tie, the ink at the
top of my naked sleeve;
leading edges that bleed.

if you shudder at the unholy
messes, the incongruent seams,
i took too much of your time
already, ask once, i’ll let you be.

Birds Dont Sing and
i know you asked me why;
you said I never knew
the places that you do -

corner store with the
Corvette Cassette, or the
urbanite Chinatown,
Origins of your youth.

i may not know them but
i do know Lovely You and
Lovers Rock too, where we
spent an hour washing the

stone with tactile tips.
a Lilly of my day, as
at night, or, oh-no, Oh
Devil in disguise.

when i look with my eyes
i see So Many Details,
strings from Kites zigging
a bedroom span, zagging

back across, No Rules,
like the rivers or roots we grew by.
attempting to Think Feel
my way through the space -

no not forever, but yes
Everything Goes; like how
You Hear Colours while
i try to draw them out

of what i return to you.
like light, only of a kind
before the reflection, a reply,
now i'm Giving up that Feeling

i don't know how,
we broke something inside.

grey-blue
my day’s first sight.
the chest lid opens
for a moment;
through my ungilded pane,
golden light.

covers not of cotton
hold me in a sleepy state;
alarming sounds outside,
mechanical monsters
speeding by - i should
charge a different rate.

washed and dressed,
the coffee steeped.
brown stains spatter
the porcelain platter;
a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped.

your scent-leavened my room;
now i’m just citrus and oak.
(a lonesome, near empty glass,
speckled by dried bubbles)
like spindrift from waves,
hazy memories, smoke –

i return to the edge of my bed
rain filling the gutter,
sounding the roof
pans of metal, mossy
cakes softening the tap-tap- tap.
– lightheaded, I shudder

what were the last words
you wept? a final stinging truth.
filling the void of a clear-cut
heart is now overnight trick;
succession may give me roots,
like my hemlock and alder youth.

here is one possibility -
the adoration is rooted
in your fresh quality.
i've never met any one
quite like you before.
that novelty is inspired,
held internally; hopeful.

it's the fire inside,
if what i read is truth.
constrained by
steeled sheets,
the chains wrap
clockwise around;
a shell to weather
the storm, inside.
thick skin,
leather shoes,
words that drive the loop -
if mary ever
left her room,
color would play a tune.
every item studied
makes us die; bite
the apple then
taste the lies.
living on the inside,
a hope in favor
of saferseas.
always playing
hide-and-seek,
as if soaking in
truths might flood
tubs, never
setting me free.