Once I had a dream.
I was with a woman.
We were kissing,
but I kept becoming distracted
by the strips of fried chicken
that adorned her neck.

Today is the day that all of my skin falls off.
It sheds and peels, and there I am.
A banana. Not without flaws.
There's probably a little bruise,
But you could probably just cut it out,
and I'd be just fine to eat.
I like bananas with peanut butter.

That's really all I have to say.
I keep hearing that.
People have plenty to say,
they just don't want to say it.
They don't want anyone to hear their soul noise.
That ambient trip-hop of their inner world.
They don't want us to see their brown horses
riding the water slide of their mind-veins.
They don't want us to see the umbrellas
opening and shutting
with their wildly shifting weather patterns
that is their nearly beating heart.

Don't you know,
we're all just in a tool box.
No one has they keys to let us out,
so we don't have anything to fix.
All of these hammers and nails,
and no boards or shutters to secure our windows.
We'd like to think that's what we do,
and our imagination sure does feel
a lot like our waking life.

Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.

Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined

And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.

Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying

Just too many blades.
   Grass, knives, wings, shades, windows, opaque and transparent.
paper.

And I will have left
Some kind of Mark,
Even if all it will be
are the mediocre works
Of Me.
"She tried, but,
Her accomplishments are only
Barely notable."
It's all so laughable.

I look into the white clouds
And laugh
Until the beads release
And drown my imagination.
And all that's left of me
Is fizzing whizzing whirls
Of swirly empty space
And explosions.
That's all We are, You know?

How dare We believe
That We are more
Than all there is?
Don't you see this fallacy?

We're just tiny people hiding
Under a camper from the rain.
But, your skin.
Your skin is a trillion blankets under the stars.
The last day in April.
A day for colliding our
Stuff & Things.
I never know that anything
Is going to happen.

I'm just an atom with an electron to spare,
Wandering about,
Waiting for someone who's missing one.

No kind of tiny whisky white,
ethereal plane,
bridging all dimensions
little thing can crawl
under the 3rd dimension skin
where I live
and eat the kindred flowers.

One hundred percent of the time,
I'm at a loss for words.

We can't stop it, even though we would've liked to.

Seventeen million puppies. Nothing to eat. How does this work?