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?

Little bees. little bees. seeb elittil. be lees. it esbe li tle.
Just math. Simple mathematics.
Simple masonry.
The ghosts **** the little bees.
Hanover. It's a city.
Massachusetts. Germany. New Hampshire.
It's just another one of those things.

For once,
there can never be enough
       filth
that will not be gone with a flick
of the wrist, and a little incantation.

Jest is not in the particle,
It is in the galaxies.

Ralf is not a man.
Leaf cries when he is ripped.
But, he will be found and noticed
By the flamenco dancers
Who reside inside
All of the rocks that might
Be outside in the pavement
As we sip mango ***** beverages.

It is the silliest of events.

Good morning.
Welcome to this holistic Universe
of pumpkin spice lattes
with "organic" soy milk.

In this indisputably beautiful
multiplication homogeneous
to unidentified living growth,
we spawn the dawning
of a new era with our own
Purple Prose.

It's neither here, nor there.

Take a step back.
        Notice It.

Smell the ripe air with both
Sweat & Smoke.
We reciprocate our feelings
      Of  
           u n s u r e n e s s
With a firm handshake
And an
avoiding eye.
Here, we have fabricated
the abundance! of our Knowledge,

while We can't figure it out.
Are We real at all?

Just let it out like a starburst.
Planes rising too close
To the edge of the atmosphere.
They're overwhelmed with beauty,
   crossing the line, just barely.
Falling back through,
   with an explosion,
      raining wisdom down.

Fear.
The reality of being small
       in the world.

God.
Fit me into this tiny hole.
Let me ball myself like cotton
              and absorb.
Let me bleed when squeezed
      like an orange in the morning.

In my car
Listening to tastes better suited to the past
Smoking cigarettes.
Inhaling thoughts desired. Exhaling
    ideas of unoriginality.

Living a priveledged life in the U.S.A.
Free if worries of **** and ******,
Belly full of carnage and illegal immigration.

Head twirling like ballerinas
Twinkling piano, followed by
Strings of mourning
Deep and somber
Reverberating lost love
       and new life
Ember glowing. Smoke.
Eyes flipped inside out
Without humor
Like the 99.9% plasmatic Universe.

Fogged windows.
Fogged false memories
   Of should haves, could haves.
Is it blasphemy?
The questions, comments, concerns
   Of you in your grave.

You're the drums in the dark clouds
                           inside,
   the waves feel when my eyes are shrouds.

Lightning over the horizon
Enlightening my dark night sky
Reminding me of why
Your smile is the candle flame
Pointing out the pages of the Greats
That need to be my blood and bone,
The marrow of Life and Time,
The arrow piercing hearts of stone.

Leaves of the tree tops
       Touch the sky
   sharing stories of the view
               with the branches below.

I'm not ghastly to behold, but if you only knew the truth about me.
My soul coughs up ashes, and nothing grows in the soil of my heart.
My blood is full of sand spurs, and earthworms burrow through my bones.
Just take My word for it. I'm rotten to the core.

The light of my smile shatters windows, and further blinds the blind.
The sound of the brightness deafens the sharpest of ears.
My innermost caverns leak with stagnant muck,
but the truth about me is, I'm emotionally bankrupt. Destitute.

I speak like a daffodil, playful in the breeze, and I tread softly,
but don't be mistaken.

I'm a nasty beast.

Conspicuous.
With constituents sent into a pent a gram, with ham.
Flesh, tied with mesh and on a plate of fate you lied to us for twenty years plus.

Peril.
How terrible a word, so perturbed with putrid heard of wild lore.
What a sore of heart, I'm torn apart to see this part of me.

As hungry as I am, I eat not.
For the conspiracy theory within each bite might shorten your life.
The pinball game slayed me, the pin flippers.
Jubilant auto-spree, tickle my Afghanistan sweater,
I'm hiding in your auto sphere.
Whole and real.