the military came today
a brigade marching in line
and its too late for order while im laying in bed
watching them cross the ceiling in unison
black bodies following the cracks like deer paths
that should be used for dreaming about new horizons
but instead we’ve got the army charging in for battle
with microscopic villains who cling to the dust
hidden in the wall since before
we could give ants life with our peripheral thoughts
and mine are a screaming desire for parenthetic
phrases with sidetracks and bright colors
not the rigid two-by-two of little black boots
not bothering to explore the drywall universe before them

each string is a dimension
and he's traversing them
fourth, fifth, ninth;
symphonies of light and color
with mathematical precision
that astronauts would envy
but he didn't sign up for space travel
and to touch the earth again would be like
being born a prodigy of mud and sky
you can see it on his face, flashing,
like the shooting stars his fingers so desperately pattern out
across the red wood, the color of home
so from dust he must try to create
a galaxy, when no man is a god

he was a man of many words
who wasn't afraid of a fight
so he joined the debate team (without
parent permission) and
boy what a shame
that poor little rich girl
with letters in her hair just so happened
to snitch to his conscience
about his unfair advantage
so he went downhill until nowhere was left
but hellfire theatre where he hid
and the flowers didn't bloom in sun
because she was always there to guide him
so to see his calla lilies he tore the sky
until no words were left to read on her face

you've got a forest burning in your eyes
that's never going to grow from the ashes
so move to the city and knock it down
like building blocks you want to go back to
but there's too many lovers in the way
so come away to the meadow with me
plant a few flowers and watch them grow to the sky
we have nowhere to be til they touch the stars
and then we can climb their young stalks
to see how far we've come since we lit a match

how about we start again
2:30 a.m. with broken televisions
reliving yesterday's disasters
just like when the waves informed me
that i don't hate clocks, i just thought i could
because you can since you're a god like im a goddess
but sometimes earth holds me down
just like the depths of the ocean that are too cold to
breathe in
and i do like the clocks because
my heart has no rhythm
like wind
so my metronome is something you will never follow
despite my silent requiem you yearn to find
and even i can't seem to fall asleep
with the sound of on-screen ocean storms in my ears
that you just can't seem to hear
on the next street over

how much would i give to be a cat
my pendulum tail tick-tocking on top of the countertop
like the metronome that sits by the piano unused
(but the ghosts turn it on every once in a while
when they tire of standing behind my shoulders
at four a.m. when i am in love and cannot sleep)
with the rays of sunlight that erupt
in the morning, i'll sing 'til the door swings open
and feet will emerge, and on top of them legs
that hold body and hands to feed me,
all for me and
no other being will be as praised as i,
the king of the kitchen

sometimes the flowers dance
better than the ones you love
sometimes the trees will sing arias
smoother than the lead of the play
sometimes the leafy bushes hide
better than closed mouths
sometimes the creeping weeds  
are stealthier than the criminal
sleeping next door

sometimes when everything is falling down
dandelion fluff can find its way around
and even in our human stillness
grass can still be free

they keep asking me if I'm 'okay'
and i can't say no because look at this,
a flawless facade drawn
with such vivid accuracy that the
picture is a photograph and I can
see myself in that mirror with my
perfect smile and life all ready
to be burned down to the skeleton in
my own fight for the freedom of man

and how can i deny the fact that I am
utterly miserable with this fleeting grin
and crying laughter that makes people wonder
if someone is dying in the next room over
when the disease is a cold and they have cancer
you know they can hear your sadness and they
are currently flying through their own darkness
to find the strength to strangle you until you cry no more
but it only makes you grow colder

the only proof for 'okay' is the words
that blare out like a speaker on repeat
because this face can't let them hear my cracking porcelain ;
not the little dying girls down the hall.

can someone explain to me
how it is that you can say I am
not real
not really
that I still feel the stings of hurt when she leaves me
or the knife twisting in further as he betrays me

can someone explain to me
how it is that you can think I am
so broken
for breaking it off
when I just need time to think to myself
without this constant caterwalling of i love you

i love you
i love
i
i
i

can someone explain to me
how all that is left is i
resounding
astounding
in the love that's grown empty and
puffed up with promises of You

the ten dollar bill is folded over on itself
she cannot see the zero, only the one before it
as it sits there undisturbed beside the empty bottles
one beer, one water
one prescription lotion
cap still lying open as the
comfort inside hardens into dust
and the room is full of nothing at all
but the empty and the misinterpreted
as she lay there staring in the still silence of life
no noise, no light
no sign of motion
in the entire house but the
gentle tap of her fractured fingers against her leg

Why is it that when we feel
like our world has turned inside out
flipped over like a dying fish like a dying bird
like a broken wing bent out of proportion
all we can do is say a two letter word
in a fleeting expression softer than the fleece
on my freshly washed jacket where I hide
from every sound and breath

oh

I remember how he sounded
while laughing loudly, lips curled, cat-like,
at a joke inside of him that no one knew
how to hear
and he smelled free
and he looked like spring wind
and he felt like a powerful gladness
that surged into all his surroundings

I remember how he sounded
heart beating tired rhythms, breathing in,
breathing out in a calm that no one knew
how to hear
and he smelled safe
and he looked like the night sky
and he felt like the soft thump
echoing through his chest into my almost sleeping ears

I remember how he sounded
eyes burning with salt but invisibly,
like a dark dawn's cries for sunlight that no one knew
how to hear
and he smelled like the paint from his smile
and he looked like a blind man speaking of color
and he felt like someone I still knew well
but I wasn't quite sure who

she colored space-time
into her hair
using only a paintbrush and patience
strand by strand she formed it:
the glistening planets and stars that are
of her own mind
neurons shooting like rockets
envisioning the galaxies that, built from her hands,
exploded from nothing into everything,
tangible but free, whispering red gold light

she wrote out the oceans
using her hands
lakes rivers and streams, and the lands along the edges
word by word she poured it:
the life of each puddle turned into clay creatures
that breathed reality
existing like trees on the vast new savannas
living freedom that, carved from her fingertips,
developed happiness and sorrow,
careful but real, eating their new knowledge

she gave birth to gods
from her parted lips
speaking out deities and auras
making the small assertion:
that life came from her and all things by her
but the life she loves had long since forgotten
the green of her eyes
and the red rock of her skin,
her writings and whispers
floating throughout the summer smog
so she roared in the thunder and the rushing waves
for her children and worlds to listen
but they could no longer hear, and she was left
lost and awaiting, wrapped
in her own space-time hair

I am a landscape of hills and valleys
and some jagged edges where
the world stops.
I have clean springs and caverns
on my face and
small peninsulas that sense
and feel on my hands.
I have changed this landscape
and ploughed it to find
the red soil that lies underneath
the pale surface.
And the people have told me
it is destroyed.
But from there inside the pain
grows a garden
and a planet continues
living.

Disney taught me that
Even little kittens
Sitting on the bench of their sleek baby grand
Can understand the definition
Of practice makes
Perfect
With their tails clicking in Perfect unison
Perfect Four/Four time
Time of which there is not enough
To just stand and mutter a free meter
Without uttering Failure

Expression of the heart does not so easily
Occur through Vaccai
But to express power of mind would prove
Simple as memorizing scales and opening the mouth
Because you’re a vocal thunderstorm
Wreaking havoc, a Hurricane
Of a Butterfly,
A musical anomaly
With path destined for success
If you would just stay with the rhythm
One beat longer

But inside of you there is
Sunlight
Repressed by storm clouds