Cali 5d

I am still learning
how to be gentle and kind
in a world that is not mine,
where the flowers sway
in fields of golden solemnity
and the trees shake like a word
that wants to be said.

I am still learning
how to live in a place
where knowledge is but
a means to an end;
a point on the map
to be forgotten once you've
crossed into the blissful ignorance
of suburban accomplishment.

I am still learning
how to look at a sunrise
and feel more than this
transient melancholy
at a beauty that is held alone.
The thoughts that bloom
in exultance just to be borne
lie waiting, ripe with discontent
at the threshold of a room
where no one speaks the language.

Cali Apr 11

in dreams we split
like atoms,
heaving out words
that seek truth
and glances
like knives.
funny little things
float behind my eyelids
as though
they have a right.

hazy sunlight
seeps in through
his basement window
and my mossy eyes
flicker and expand,
stealing shadows
of his sleeping form-
there is truth
in freckles and
pale blue veins
that twists and sings
until I'm tongue tied
leaning on a syllable.

we make love
like thieves,
hanging delicate
ideas from the ceiling
to clear a space
in his king sized bed
for something more,

for something real-
it flows through my veins
and drips from my fingers,

something like love.

Cali Apr 6

spring seeps in
with great grey rains
and a shifting sun
that could try harder.

small things whisper
and rush to hide
beneath rotting wood
and ancient bricks,
squirming there
in soil that keeps
and breathes life
in April.

green shoots glance
tentatively through
hazy morning light,
pushing through
earthworms and detritus
to gift me one
small wink
as I brush the earth
from my human hands.

it is a great exchange
from the vast frozen sheets
of glittering death
and pale winter sun
into the world of the living.
it is an awakening
of sleeping seeds
and tendrils

and it is more like
a rebirth,
as my limbs stretch
and bloom with the trees
and a quiet smile once again
comes to rest
on this gratuitous
winter face.

Cali Apr 4

Silence twists around my throat,
serpentine in the inky light,
as the paint sticks
and dries beneath my fingernails.

Ideas claw at my solar plexus
threatening sycophancy
treason and madness
in a world of stale passion
and stuttering ignorance.

They wake up and shower,
piss, shave, apply the mask
with painstaking detail.
They die before they reach thirty
and go on walking about
as if they know the secret
to eternal bliss-
it's possible that they do,
after all.

I mean, consider the alternative-
an artist haunted by the colors
that live in a winter sunrise,
a nomad reaching for no one
as he chases the sun
across mercurial landscapes,
a writer living through ink
because there's no other way
to quell the storms,
a human shedding expectations
for beautiful things
that will always be broken.

Cali Mar 30

You live only in memories
for me, memories
and ashes on the floorboards.
It's strange to think
that you're out there
living and breathing
and moving about
in a world that I'm not
a part of.

I think of songs that we sang
bruises we made
broken guitar strings
ragged throats
disembodied words
wasted glances
and it all just sits there
misty and faint
in little corners of my mind
and I don't miss you at all.

the human condition
is rarely terminal.

Cali Mar 30

I linger at skin that clings
and hollow bones
that catch in the moonlight,
pausing at mirrors
that look more like
still-life paintings-
an empty gold vase
over here where my heart
used to reside,
a fresh green sprig
where there were once arms.

There is a sickness
sleeping in my hypothalamus,
heaving with every breath,
every step, every heartbeat.
I try to look at it
and it slips like sand
through my closed mind.

I smile, and it's not
my smile anymore.

Cali Mar 28

Silver tides roil and spill
across wayward toes
and crossed fingers,
haphazard eyes
moonlighting as mirrors
flicker and stick
and there might be something here
that I can touch
that won't turn to stone.

I navigate through
cnidarian carcasses
and splinters of shattered sunlight
to find your fingertips-
an X where reason meets delirium,
and I trace the passage
of cerulean veins
that never lie.

It seems that time is circular here
and all of your questions,
rhetorical.

What the fuck is love,
anyways?

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