Infinite.

Like how many times you can take a picture,
with your mind,
of we intertwined.

Like three chords.
Your pick.

Like each idea becoming a suggestion,
an open ended request,
like the innocence behind "inquisitive"
that is lost in "inquisition".

Like the questions I mean to ask you,
but I'm not sure you'll be listening
at that moment in time.
Stopwatch.
Dewdrop.

Like how I mean to hold
you
r hands
r heart
you.

Like the limit of the tangent of x as it approached y.
I want to curve
and parenthesize around your body.
We will diverge.
We are inverse.
We are combustable.

Green husks burned
Summer sky molds the fruit to hold its passion;
Probed curiosity of a world above
our atmosphere.
What happens that we, the all-powerful humans, couldn't fathom?
Peeled open, a bright yellow star,
Alone in the fruit filled universe
In a forgotten crate at the end of an aisle
Whilst apples and grapes go on parade
the passion, guava, and star are a scandal.
Bruised sides see the glare of the electric light
(Once the bright orange glow of the sun
kissed these green skins)
The sweet flesh of a bitten star
is covered by black holes
once as bright as stars
The apples and grapes fade
in their repetition

Things Fall Apart
(Chinua Achebe knew that)
We are what we will be;
What we eat.
Oh, what a world!
What will Rufus think when we are all
Cheeseburgers?
Running the world
(my favorite pastime)
Everyone loves a cheeseburger
But what about the raw ones?
There are too many out there
NO FEAR!
THE GRILLMASTER IS HERE!
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,
I will silence the vegetarians,
And raise the price of organic goods!
That will show them!
And read my lips:
NO NEW TAXES!”

The beginning's are the worst for me,
but I prefer the middle, rather than the end;
I'll always enjoy the journey more than the destination.
Great for roadtrips, irritating for bedtime.

I've got baggage, but I don't want to talk about it.
I will listen to yours 'til the cows come home
(and offer you reasonable advice),
but I don't want you to fix me. I've been fixing myself for years.

I may leave you for the milkman,
but only because I have a longstanding relationship with dairy.
Take it as a compliment if I call you a cow.

I would rather help than be loved.
To me, they are not synonymous.
Just like writing in short lines
with even shorter
linebreaks
is not synonymous with poetry.

My rhyme scheme has little structure, but I expect your schema to have a story.

You have to play chess, but well enough to kick my *** occasionally.
Keep me humble.

I will probably be incredibly, secretly needy,
or ridiculously nonchalant.
What human being doesn't yearn for the other side of the looking glass?
My brains are always tumbling and rumbling, though.

Mister, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.
Me neither.

I'd like to be protected by you,
even though I don't need it.
(I still believe in chivalry).
I like the idea that my honor is worth defending.

I'm still the same 3 year old soul, wandering around
with my microscope and plastic saxophone,
except this time it's linguistic puns and wh- questions
(especially why).
My favorite response being, why not?

I won't ask much of you,
just energy, a soul to squeeze, and a hand to hold;
a body to hug.
But don't worry, you'll get much in return
(probably too much,
at least that's what they tell me).

I talk too much, walk too slow, and am the most
awkwardpersonyou'llevermeet,
all tumbles and rumbles and wiggles.
But I've got a lot to say,
even though I'll always prefer to listen.

I want you to hit me
like a ton of bricks with good intentions.
There's a lot of fire, especially for you, young love.
My heart string and soul swing,
I am yours to mold and shape and croon
(but my heart is not an empty room).
You can move the furniture,
but once you hang up the paintings,
I might just want to keep it.

(That's what I'm worried about)
I want to set your world on fire,
and I want you to set mine alight
(but sometimes I lose the extinguisher).

I'm expecting
nothing
but hoping
for too much.
That's where my tongue gets tied-
I don't know how to take the reigns,
****** you,
or  make myself undeniable,
or irreplaceable.

I don't want to though,
because with enough time,
everything heals.
Memories are alive as long as you think of them.
But after you forget, they rest in peace.
I'd like to be your peace,
piece of apple pie, holy moly me oh my.

Don't fool my janglin' heartstrings
because they'll stretch andstretchandstreeeettch and bend 'til they break.

I don't like talking on the phone.
Make up your own ******* story.

Before this date,
I just want you to know
that I'm slightly crazy, completely ridiculous,
and have a few tales to spin from my fingertips.
(and I wiggle. too much)

I'll be your Jane if you can be my Alexander
or Tarzan.
Noah always needed a whale for his ark.
I probably already think you're funny and cute,
and I'll kiss you all starry eyed, my body swaying from side to side.

I actually don't know what I want.
But I'd like for you to be there when I figure it out.

When I say, do you feel me?
I'm not meaning in a literal sense.
Get your hands off of my mindset.

You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.

Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).

Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.

Maybe we’ve moved past
The jazz dancing nights
Baby brownie bites into freedom
Now
A pathology of pathologically pathetic patterns
Day in, day out
Wax on, wax off
One of these days:
I’ll learn the piano
Beethoven, bach, ben folds
One of these days
Handstands, happiness, hope
Will string through the summer loving
Hooligans
One of these days
We robo-people will wind down,
Slow,
Stop,
Need oil for our rusted bits
Head, shoulders, knees, and even toes
But, mr. tin man, what if Dorothy
Never comes along?
We won’t blink for centuries
And maybe the world will finally come alive

I like to read love poetry to help me fill in your outline.
Love poetry meaning,
I got my guts kicked out by a falling star the other night.
Your sweater came unraveled after a dose of moonshine.
Someone forgot to turn on the Eiffel Tower again
(they must have flipped my switch instead).

I guess what I'm trying to say is,
I'm holding myself in a continuous state of
"why can't you just take out the garbage"
and
"my garbage
(socks and kleenex and so many strands of DNA)
is all over your floor and maybe I'll pick it up later"
and
"leave it, don't touch it, so perfect, right now, even if it's ******"
and
"I found this box and I want hide every remnant of any interaction and I make big messes but every Sunday is my cleaning day and I will remove every trace of you and me and socks and I and intertwined DNA"

I like it when my guts scream.
Not from the Indian food
(no thank you)
but from my imagination,
always four score and seven years of full speed ahead.
I like to think my mucosal membrane knows how to respond
when assaulted with good life intention.

My words have gone walking again.
They got up and left,
slamming the door behind them.
I think it's been a long time coming and a slow spiral downwards;
lately I've been speaking in euphemisms and grandeur that only
I can make sense of
(maybe my jokes just stopped being funny to everyone around me).

My words have gone walking again.
They slipped out the open window,
caught a ride west and said,
"She'll be fine on her own. She always is."

Third times the charm,
my words have gone walking again.
They took off on a horse with no name
and hopped a train to Clarksville.
Alphabet soup has come to life,
but not with my choice in spoonerism.
My head's not quite in my hands,
but my shoulders are keeping it hinged.
Come back soon, my mouth feels empty
and my tongue has no flap nor tap left without you.

Sometimes when I come (home),
I want to make a found poem out of
all the memories I never had
/(have yet to create).

It's all those words that I wanted to apply,
like "free" and "full" and "release"
and "unencumbered ventriloquist" and
"owls".
Just for the sake of sinking my teeth
into someone else's dictionary, vocabulary
(early morning rituals.
Perhaps I can slink into someone else,
if I adopt their lexicon,
and prepare my coffee the same way).

What are you spewing into the atmosphere?
What are you defining,
bringing into breath based on your action and reaction?

I could feel my hands
(plucking, grasping, *******, tearing)
your letters and phonemes and characters and verbal intent.
They're still on my pillowcase, I just don't know if you want them back.
I left mine buried in your red hot chili peppers lights,
you can keep them.

We have so many different endings.

Sometimes,
I miss you with such ferocious intensity
that I start to wonder if it's you I actually miss.
Perhaps, it's simply the idea of you,
or how my puzzle shelf seems to now be missing a piece.

You asked me how it was possible
for two people to be able to share such depth
and such shallow waters together.
I wasn't sure how to tell you how deep those waters went.

It's like your black, your notes, the vision of sheet music moving
once the player gives life to the sound. It's how sometimes,
you feel certain. Others, you feel a million rays of doubt and trouble
and construct that weren't made by your hands.

It's when you can't fall asleep because you're hacking up a lung,
and when John Green makes you want to cry and throw the book and pick it up and whisper
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
I still haven't figured out if I'm talking to him, the book, or you. Or me.

It's when I wish you were in my bed, just so I could lean over and kiss your forehead,
with the light still on and your snores filling the room.
I'd probably take that back once your chainsaw uvula nasal passages filled the room,
but as for right now, my starfish doesn't quite tuck so neatly.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a hundred times.
I was always scared of the person who would answer,
until they started answering.
It was usually my Ciocia, or my Dzia Dzia,
saying, 'hush hush little one",
or "be good to each other".
Most times, when I was lying balled up under the covers,
or hiding in my shower,
trying my hardest not to sob the walls out of existence,
those were the answers to my prayers.
The best advice usually came from myself,
telling me to take my time and be ridiculous,
even if just for the moment.
I didn't think I needed God to tell me that,
when I could tell  that to myself.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a thousand times.
I wasn't sure what to pray about.
I felt weird reliving my day in narrative form,
and I didn't want to ask for favors or forgiveness like Christmas gifts.
I'll find my own good community,
my own piece of mind.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a million times.
Each time, the answers wouldn't come, and I was left worshipping the ground I had walked on 10 minutes before;
the same amount of dried leaves and holey socks littering the crosswalk of my bedroom.

I tried to pray once,
to infinity. To a God without a name, without a face.
It always came back to my Ciocia, though.
Who lives in your white house, your whitewashed walls of glory and redemption?

Trees wave
friendly greetings.
I've yet to say hello.
I would like to be your forest
Preserve

My pores are ******* you in.
I'm noticing this tone, through all my words, and warps and pieces,
it's like wordplay but less fun and more caustic.

My peach tree, shaken, branches splayed
(I really like your peaches won't you shake my tree?)
Peach, just a small variation away from bleach,
which is a variation of blech,
which is what is often going through my mind when I think of ways to respond to you.

My sparkling diamond of a
(kitchen floor)
soul, scrubbed red raw,
sometimesIwishIdidn'tchangeasmuch
asIpretendIhave,orrecogniz­ethatIhaven't,really.

I want to eat crack
(s in the linoleum)
all day, on my patio, and be surrounded by good vibes.
Vibesvibesvibes.

My ache is raw,
like an egg freshly cracked,
or the red meat on the counter.
Your flesh (my meat),
my red gaping open string of words and saliva.

This had every intention of being a light, swifty thing.
Furiously twittering (twitter wickedly),
my mind isn't always this dark I promise.
I promise a million things, but I'm still trying to understand myself.
Understand myself, oversit yoursociety.

Why do you take your pictures with your open mouth?
You are drooling all over my lens.

The brain is never too old to learn new tricks.
Like how you eventually mold to every hand you hold,
even if you've never held it before
(especially if you hope to hold it for a long, long time).

Your neurons are always evolving and adapting,
from the first time you open your eyes and your retinas
(oh your retinasandconesandrodsandthereis
SO
MUCH
MORE
goingonbehindthesce­nesthanwegiveitcreditfor)
are pounded by light,
by images,
by focus and abstraction coming into clarity and comprehension.
Did you know that you can sing your way through a stutter?
I wish I could tell that to the heart palpitations
currently coursing through John Doe's ventricles.
But that's besides the point.

Your neurons, the same one you were born with, far fewer that you'll die with,
can rewire themselves.
Tell yourself you're dying enough times,
and maybe your brain will trick itself into living.

1010.
I wonder what that means in binary.
Iloveyou.
thankyou.
yourpoetrysucks.
picklesonthemoon.
re­frigerator.

The night ended with Samson
(and Regina).

Sometimes my dreams smell like patchouli.
or car wrecks, or airports.
Exhaust fume, gasoline;
only when I'm dreaming of you, though.

I hit 1000.
2+ times,
but I hit it running and sputtering,
left it on the ground to come back to tomorrow.
Sorry,
I was just so exciting about having a thou,
in the sand.
Have people really come back to me, and kept scanning their eyes
over my pages?
Weird.

I like you better when you have a beard.

Because my parents let me run around naked for too long.
Because I was always up a tree without a sturdy branch.
Because I was a good sneak.
Because my Babcia gave me too many cookies.
Because my dziadkowie always said my dress was beautiful.
Because I like to shake it, shake it, shake it.
Because it's too easy to cry.
Because I'd rather not yell.
Because I don't want to.
Because I forgot.
Because I pretended not to understand, but really didn't know what to say.
Because I like it.
Because I didn't understand, but said it anyway.
Because it's too hard to cry, when all you cry is smoke and mirrors and misunderstanding.
Because I don't know why the caged bird sings.
Because I'd rather scream.
Because you have long, curly hair that you let me braid.
Because you sang with me that one night.
Because you let me hold your hand, even though I know you don't like holding hands.
Because you have red hair, and love ears.
Becuase you are nature and nuture.
Because you are tall.
Because you give the best hugs.
Because you left your ***** dishes in the fridge.
Because you told me your secrets in my car that night, and let me tell you mine.
Because you always make me laugh, and I can always make you laugh.
Because you have red hair, and dance.
Because you are short.
Because you love so much.
Because you're hard to love but I love you anyway.
Because you taught me how to be myself, even if it seems like sometimes you forget who you are.
Because if at first you don't succeed, tango around the kitchen and try again.
Because you reminded me how to be sassy.
Because you taught me how to do a stall.
Because I still don't know what to think of you.
Because you pretended to be my mom so I could adopt a cat.
Because you trusted me, and had high expectations.
Because you let me go.
Because you still return my phone calls, and eat peach ice cream with me.
Because you knew Smokey.
Because you were beautiful, and I'm sorry I didn't know you were hurting on the inside.
Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Because I don't know any other way.

You ask me why?
I can think of a million things.
Why not?

I want the twiddle you hear
in lil guitar songs.
The ones that twist your heartstrings
and make you sigh with relief,
with pain and shame and passion.
They hit you like the music notes that
promise big dreams and whisper sweet nothings:
a ton of bricks with good intentions.

Get the heartache out of the way first:
do the hard stuff first
and take the joyful meanderings, eventually.

Take this beating, breathing, seething, seemingly
lively thing and EXCHANGE it
make it feel and not think
let me follow and follow and not lead me
astray. Show me, don't tell me.

I am your poetry 100 class, and you
need to constructively criticize my
existence in to sense.

Weather whethers whither wow?
Picture Oregon Trail, version 2, the runaways.
A little banjo with your standstill open plain,
always waving wheatgrasses,
beckoning with wide fingertrails.

I tried to ford the river,
but my ******* oxen died.

Each breath worse than the last,
feeling filth in my bones,
dysentery behind every accidental shotgun wound.
What do you do when you know two right answers,
when everything feels correct?
Multiple choice,
multiple guess,
multiple uglies.

You touch my stereo,
volume and fingernails tune.

breakbendfeelmoan
they don't tell you about this in high school health class
textbooks stay closed and only experiences
lead lasting impression, much to disdain
of old foagies and superintendants

reachgrasppullarch
closet floors, bedsheets left with
roses blooming and a garden
of memories, fond or not

clampcloseopenbreath
once in a lifetime, twice in a nighttime
human turn to alien, alien back to human
breathe and breathe and breathe

holdclenchreachgasp
your soul, my soul, whose soul
was left in the morning light,
while i've got the proof on my
leftover laundry
is that bourbon,
or a double malted scotch
i smell on my pillowcase?

leave your stain as you found it
you won't have to worry about washing away.

show me your mortality
it doesn't rule my life.
i know you say the same
but it's those moments you look out between your eyelashes that tell me the most.

you didn't offend me.
it offends me more when you only want my friendship for the hardships.
you make me feel like i'm only worthy of my bad experiences.
being a good friend means being there for more than just the bad times.
don't feel like you have to help me through anything,
i've already done just fine.

You make my hands cold, full of soft eyes and hooded thoughts.
Late nights spent between sleep and slumber,
dreams and lies, fantasies and nightmares.
The labyrinth limbo, that nexus that lets you dare to picture what you don't dare to think when your eyes are fully open.

My hands trace my lips, my hips, these slits
in the drywall, feeling for more motion.
Feed me to a full frenzy, I don't want anything from you that I can't give myself.
There is a bible on my nightstand, but it's full of my own truths and holy testimonies.

Sometimes I only think I drink so I'm brave enough to talk to you.
To let the swallows burn some courage into me,
tell me what I'm too afraid to tell myself.
Let me feel what I'm too afraid to feel, too ashamed to admit.
Not that I'm raging, nor am I addicted.
(But I bet that's what they all say).

*** and coke is my drink of choice.
Feel that sunshine on the sand, the paradise of a paradox.
Funny how I've never actually been to a real beach,
with a real ocean,
but pretend it's the only place I ever want to be.

You make me ashamed of myself.
I don't want to be your mistress, your last call before the lights go on.
I've never promised myself anything less than everything.
What I want, I make for myself.
Not my parents, not my sister, not for you, not for God.
I give myself a reason to exist.
My raging hormones
(loneliness from only conversing with disordered populations)
shouldn't be an excuse to be a second choice,
the one you can claim if the current girl "doesn't work out".

My spit is all over these words,
I picture them more as a slam then a reading.
I want you to feel my truth,
feel my crumble as the walls come down but bombs still drop.

We were stumbling
trudging fudging
falling
through the open sesame springtime
weeds come up with their wisdom
of the world below
hold on, grasping gasping
chokehold on their world before
do we tug hard enough,
or do they finally give up?
"Belonging" is only a relative term
We all belong to something
our hearts, our bodies
are bound by expectations
Do we live to function
or function to live?
Every **** has its own
greater good.

I left my pitter patting feet
at the door
He said I can feel the heat
from a total lunar eclipse!
Maybe that's my overactive imagination
or the way we can run away from each other.
But no.
In my dreams, crispy crispy
benjiman franklin flips hot dogs
and street corners aren't so sepulchral
Your life may be just as worth saving as your dollars.

I was never any good at saying goodnight
or goodbye for that matter
My hands are clenching this mug,
willing it to keep me awake.

My night won't end,
and I promise I'll figure out who I am,
if I can only stay up for 15 more minutes.
Witching hour, 12:34 syndrome,
what's behind the curtain of conscious number 3?

I'd spend my whole life hiding my heart away,
if I knew it wouldn't burn whenever I thought about
you dropping me off at the train station,
skyscrapers and kissed foreheads.
Every single time, it just sounds more honest
when Brandi says it.

They say you can read tea leaves.
I'd rather ground my fist into coffee
and see what truth lies underneath the soil.

Hello there, long lost friend!Your soul is quick to embraceBut your eyebrows are hesitantNonchalant, but entirely too awareOf the time that has passed.You've grown out of rompers and jumpersAnd long ago lost your innocence,Running from quick candlefireAnd buffalo callings-round a nightlight.Is it that time already?To worry about loan repayments and language disorders?One more night, day, hour, summer,To roam in search of fireflys,Pitter pats, and knee high adventures.

Ready.
An ancient mix
of connection plus
classic individuality.
Steady.

Heart and soul pull
together to form sweet
jams of melodious rewrite.

First draft,
Pah! No more than
scribbled lines of quick snap,
The sound of an idea. Crackle!
Electric pop.

Second screening;
This time with a chord
on blues and lyricise.

Word choice, bass drum
Action verb, guitar solo.
Stage left, practice practice
Perfect is only in front of a mirror.
Blue in the face,
Expertise of spit out syllables and rosy pink word fire.

Freeform poetry {jazz},
Filled with line
b
    R
        E
              A
                     K
                            S
that shimmy and shake.

Get up!
The finale is now
Adoring fans
Closed eyes bring
fantastic images
of repressed nights
Howling to be free.

Stage fight
Charming souls
with solid words
and wisdom of the wah wah

So, here's this:

Every third breath is made by a boa constrictor.
He lives in my ribcage, you see,
and sometimes like to see what his musculature can do compared to mine.

If every night star story started with a clear light,
what would happen to cloud cover?
What would happen to all the silver linings?

I felt what you meant when you said sometimes you yearn more for a body to hold,
someone whose arms say more than their breath,
than their breadth.
Boa knew it all along,
but I've just been letting him grow and gripe.

I knew it all along, that it would feel better then worse,
as he grew he'd need more space,
he'd demand more space and take up more space.
Except I always thought space was just a place for stars,
and if you needed to moonbounce,
you always had another planet available.
Except you didn't, and I didn't know if I wanted one, or a different you.
I want bits and pieces, I want to build my own puzzle with preference,
500 pieces that are hand picked by yours truly.

A puzzle is still a puzzle if all the pieces mostly fit, right?
Even in designated cutouts, with enough use they fade,
and become questionable in their habits.
"Are you sure this goes here? These reds are not the same"
"Sure hon, it's been like that for years, it's supposed to be like that".
When do you seek your better fitting other half, though?

Boa can twine, at least. Better to be fluid and versatile, than stock and habit.

Sail to the moon:
One way ticket to no mans land
We are everything we feared:
Self-righteous
Beastly and Grizzly
Humans (bold! Bear!)
A rare disease, but easily fixed:
Let me take your picture
(and your soul)
One shot
Join us
For we robots are free!
You call your kingdom free?
Show me your laws
And corruption
You can’t hug your children
With nuclear arms

You are a string bean on a summer day.
Think of this- how sunbeams cross string tangles and dirt
to smother you in heat and life
(photosynthesize).

To me and beyond,
the wires and wooden support
trellis to lattice to framework to explosion,
you bear fruit and burst alive.

Sometimes, I can't decide:
how to feel, how to act, where to turn, if that red light really mattered.
That red light meant a lot of things to a lot of different people.
Whole foods, a whole lofestyle of bean sprouts and organic milk,
meant to inspire the mind, body, and soul. It only inspires my wallet to get up, shake it's head at me, and wander away for a better life, to spread it's whole grain soul in some other way, hoping for some more dough at another time.
To you, my mind was elsewhere. It always is. Hopping, skipping, jumping, screaming, sobbing, pleading for some rest but ignoring the obvious solution. Always is. The truth just sounds different.
To me, I didn't mean it, I promise. I never do. I rarely know what I want, when I want it, even though all I want to pretend to be is someone who knows the perfect ending to a day, perfect response to a statement, perfect way to elicit spontaneous vocabulary. That's it, really.
To that red light, it didn't know any better. It holds a rhythm, it's own rhythm, one that doesn't change regardless of the same sunset it sees every night, the people's cars who drive by (especially the Jewish ones), the running mothers and the hustling babies. It doesn't change for nobody, no how, no woman, no cry.

I am not sleeping,
because I'm too busy thinking about which corner
God is going to jump out at me from.

"SURPRISE!
You've been looking for me for years".
(he'll say)
Gotcha!

And then I woke up.

Ancient
Monsters under
Uncle's bed. Quick, run, hide,
Under the  covers to dreamland we go
Safe.

You've got to keep
your heart young.

So, we've got Venus.
This little babe of a planet,
always in the shadow of her big sister Earth
(she got to try everything first,
I guess that's why she has her remnants
drifter all over. Some people get *****,
she got Earthlings.)
But we all know Venus was the hotter of the two.
A little more dense, sure,
but babe had curves.

She had her spotlight, though.
12 hours of high fashion runway.

Did you know you're a ***** contradiction?
When my mind fills up with radar and S.O.S via sonar,
I go into hypertonic state;
my limbs are flailing to still,
to specific and intentional.
You move me to intentions.

My arms would rather be moving as they please
ebb and flow and high and low,
but instead,
my thumbs tap each key,
hoping to convey
every
single
possibility.
From the swift and
(oh haha)
to the lengthy
(could be everything, intention, soulquickheartbodymindlove)
my  breath is my burden.

Just understand,
I'm hurried to explain everything
that one person
can try to explain in one
single
lifetime.

I want you to understand my intention,
more then my action.
My words are my bond.
But so often, they are skewed.
They are stumbled.
They are misinterpreted.
They are human.
Take them as they are,
as they are meant to be.

Crisp!She yelled into the rolling midnight thunder(the time in which thunder rolls best).For white linenand cotton shenanigans arefor novices, beware!Let the grey toothounded be confounded! For we, we are,we are the feelings the night air whispers.Why, we can only continue to existif we follow the white rabbit.To Alice's Wonderland we go.

Unpacking
is a daunting task.
Take clothes, for instance.
Every slice of fabric has rubbed you raw,
taking skin cells and hair cells and a facet
of the person who you used to be.
You (and he and they and we) are layered between strings.

Sing me a song.Maybe I'm not the lucky onewho commands a song;plays and fiddles and noodlesbut honey, it don't flow.I like the faces they makeand the ideas they feel.2 am, we meet againHold me like you hold your guitarthen I know I'm home.We're all searching for that one note-the high one she can't hit,the low one that tugs and thugz yourheartstrings.Sing me a songthat's only I, me, mine.I'm waiting on a definition

You were always better in theory.
The images I created for myself,
the moments I wished we were in.
The hypothetical has no abrupt ending,
you see.

Once upon a time,
I believed you were telling me about 12-string guitars.
On my bed,
about how it's easier to play them because the strings are so close together,
it's like you can hit all the right notes without even trying.
You tried to make me sing that night.
But then I realized I had that conversation with someone else,
in a different setting completely.
It changes our ending,
you see.
The bed sang it's own lonely song that night.

I can tell myself all the right stories,
weave my own intricately, beautifully detailed and intoxicated rhythms,
but that won't bring you here.
Oh no, lord no boy,
that won't bring you anywhere closer to me,
to here, to now, to us, to a "we".

If I promise not to empty my lint trap,
will you promise to come back
and reintroduce yourself as the "boy who likes the leaves on your wall"
to the girl who is "lucky enough to have beautifully colored lint,
kind of like a rainbow"?

It's the closest I've ever been told,
"she's like a rainbow".

home
let me come home
home is whenever I'm with you*

Home is where I forget how the earth feels beneath my feet,
because you leap so high and take me with you.

Home is what you call the static the moonlight makes
when it bounces off my floorboards at
1:47 am.

Home is when my mind hears those three chords and
it hits the same way it did the first time
(even if the twiddle and the bend are different now then they were before).

Home is whoever makes me laugh until milk
(and soup and coke and twinkies)
shoots out of my nose in a fit of glee.

Home is when I forget to take out my trash but manage to hide it
)in my sister's room(
and nobody gets in trouble.

Home is your sweater,
(and socks and trousers and suspenders and cap)
on my floor,
letting blue
(you)
melt into green
(me).

I got your letter the other day.
It was one of those professional ones,
with the address on top
and "respectfully yours" on the bottom.

I tried to read between the lines to see
what you were really trying to say,
about how you haven't been happy in years
and really only needed me
to remind you what that happiness felt like.

Instead, your mother had gone missing
(even though she's been missing from you for years)
and they didn't know how to find her.
You weren't convinced that she could be found,
or even wanted to be so.

I wanted to call you right then,
even though I didn't know what to say.
It will be okay (what if it won't?)
I'm here for you (even if I'm not the person you want)
How can I help (I'm a million miles away. Find someone else to hug)

Sometimes, I just want to send you my breath,
have it be laced with good intentions and good  vibrations.
Hopefully it says more than I ever could.

Leaf whisperers tell
me secrets of bird songs while
the wind cries Mary

You've got too many words on your tongue ******.
They're all smashing into my eyes, into my ears, into my great beyond.
I don't want your smash.
I want your careful teasing,
the smoke you ooze between your pearly whites, winking until your stained lips could sell the soul beneath the floorboards.
I want your come hither, stay thither stare that you so eloquently expressed in your *******! manuscript.
The manuscript that you said would save all the sorry souls,
and condemn your own.
"Listen to you. Listen to me. This is our dialogue"
I don't want your dialogue, and you sure as hell can't have mine.

I could stay up all night for you.
Not for your promises,
or for what I want to hear.

But just knowing that,
on the other end of this telephone,
or this interweb,
there's another soul
looking for just as much company as I am.

We d o better
when we e x i s t together,
not when we're t r y i n g to b e together.

As this cream and sugar settles,
I'm stirring God into my coffee.
Like honey residue on the sides of my cup,
trickling to trick my tea leaves into leaving a softer story behind.