to be held by you
on a night where the rain can
be heard on the roof

whilst cradled in the
soft sounds of your breathing, oh
that would be the bomb

...the bomb

how gentle it is
in its detonation, how
soft your shards breeze past

my skin

i found my best friend at the lake
down in the swamp, wading through
knee deep mire, for the sake of sustenance

i watched him for a time, as he plucked
frogs and small fish from their homes
with the trained eye of a seamstress

eventually, once i had caught his eye
he let out a cry and left me
sitting in my small lonesome boat

that was the only time i ever saw him,
but as he left me he whispered to me all of his love
his wisdom, his knowledge, through the tips of his outstretched limbs

and i never forgot him

i used to patch
the holes in your pants
that you tore while climbing rocks

i always used to think that
plaid jackets and plain jeans
suited you best

now your temper is short as well as your hair
and your fire eyes look off in to the sky
rather than crawling up my arm in to mine

tired eyes
weary sighs
empty checklists and picket lines
hands that ache
lips that quake
statements and proposals that i cannot make
calculations, calculators
stairwells and elevators
cold cement
old lament
spring leaves
endless seams
single mothers coddling crying infants
millions stare at the monitors, entranced
worn out books and worn out lies,
these are my final goodbyes

--you pushed me over.
your hands collided with  
my shoulders, firm,
forceful,
and I fell in to the pond.
all around me I felt but muck

murk and mud
my hands searched for solidity,
and only found solitude
coiled inside the russet.
frantic I searched for something to hold
maybe, your hand,

but nothing came to me.
water burnt my throat as it
forced its way through my nose.
as If I’d shattered the sun,
all around me,

colors and flashes of light captured my vision
and stars, in the hundreds, thousands,
millions yet,
overtook my eyes.

they were quick to move to my fingers.
my hands erupted in a light that I could not comprehend
as my skin shattered like glass

as horrible as it sounds,
it felt like lying in a downy featherbed.

a mattress under ten feet of the worlds’ finest pillows.

the days when
the sweet violets charmed the money out of men's pockets
just to hide away
the days when roses were proud and used their thorns wisely
snakes bathed in the sun where they were warm and welcome
spiders had simple lives of luxury with their homemade hammocks strung out
snow didnt alarm the masses
because it just meant sharing their homes with those who had
nothing besides the open air

i wonder if a

soul shattered with that bottle

that sits there alone

you rain against my windows in the middle of the night
your soft noises bring sleep to me
you snow in my mind throughout the day
covering all my thoughts in a soft blanket
you rustle the leaves to lull me through the open window
on difficult days
you tell me your stories, filled with amazing journeys
and make me smile, or sob, in the dim light of my bedroom
and i appreciate
everything youve done for me
even though ive done
nothing
to deserve you

on the bleak abyss of glaucous rock
unending in its terrible splendor
lay the two that hoped the longest.
hands clasped,
their breaths rasped,
and one light faded more rapidly
than the other.
one lone final flickering candle let out a sob,
succumb like the mob
had before, serendipitously.
fractured, shattered
the sun rose
baked the remains of lovers,
and grew the purest of white desert daisies
to commemorate
that the tyrants had fallen at last.

this morning on wednesday

april seventeenth

two thousand thirteen

a man was found dead in the parking lot

of a walmart

on a cold

drizzly spring day

wearing an old carhartt

splotched by cloudy ink stains

a white tee

and jeans so faded and worn that

there were quarter sized holes

dotting the fabric

and an old red and

white-gone-gray cap

that framed his cold

stubbled scarred scabbed face

in his pockets the following were found:

a wallet containing

seventeen dollars and sixty three cents

a bottle of forty antidepressants

minus around a hand full

the hopes and dreams of a seven year old boy

and a broken pocket watch

"today would have been a day to plant flowers"

the young woman thought

peering out on the gloomy

eighteenth-of-april day

the cool symphony of the rain on the roof

mixed with the fervor in her veins

let her forget for a moment

that she didnt sit on a throne of clouds

but rather a dull metallic wheelchair

i'm not smart
and yet i feel that i know enough to
know that i'm ready to fade out
you'll find me in the stars
if you squint

and with that single sentence my heart
hammers inside of my chest and i
i cant breathe
what is wrong you ask
what is wrong
that is a good question that
i wish i could answer
your prying cant help me
because what is wrong
is no outside force
it comes from within
it is the rapid palpitations of my heart that i swear
will **** me young
and the sudden breathlessness
it isnt worth the air anyway
why this panic the world questions

i dont know

i dont know

the summer sun sent down flames to lick their skin
and the auburn of the trees in the morning made them consider the end of days
and the bird and bee found refuge in the wood
and there was a lightness to the morning air that
sent them down in to the lake

     with the snow came their unending dreams of fault
and the dead were buried under the white
and the ice cut their lines
and their breaths were drawn short because of
the lack of atmosphere

     shards of multicolored luminescence paved paths down their arms
and the scars shone like tattoos on the moondust
and the sidewalks crumbled underneath diseased limbs
and their motionless silhouettes down the hillside proved
that there was more to death than dying

I've got a terrorist in my mind
a documented citizen of my own realm of existence
who likes to harass me daily
it is the fact that members of the human race
**** sapien
Homosexuals
Walk around and live their daily lives
I sit and stew in my little glass jar
Cubicles in my brain process their data nonstop
And I find myself trapped in a
Small storage facility of thought
Positive thinking is sorted and stored for a later date
There are flowers on my thighs
and here I sit bound in constant adoration
Out of breath in this sea of fish
Sure there are others but none like these