The whole thing was messy.
My joy, everywhere.
Great smears of dishonesty to myself on every surface.
My head, a vacant motel room.
We don't live here.
Some one else can clean this up,
this squalor,
this son,
this world.

Cut myself on double checking
                   so I stopped.
   Did nothing I wasn't sure of
         and so I
               felt nothing unheard of.
                           Am I lazy in my knowing?
            If I saw life,
would I call her by name,
                                                        in the way
                                                                ­                    some people are
                                                             ­                                                          afraid of?
                                                 Like eye contact
      or tenderness?

During it's first showing,
The Wizard of Oz's audience didn't know about the color.
Imagine, the first ever technicolor film
a surprise.
Why have we become less and less astonished?
Naive simulacrums
such poor copies
of copies.
The soul of human heart
a game
of
tele p  h     o         n             e.

When Babel was erected,
                                            
           ­                               they wanted nothing to do with words.
                
                       A singular voice

so heavy with itself

                                                  it topples under it's own
                                perfection

                                                        Slouchin­g toward each other
              no limbs
                                   to cover the distance
                                                                ­            
                                                                ­                 between
                      
                                         ­                                                             here­

and being heard.

                                                     I don't know about heaven,

                            imagined I,
    
                                                         ­                             standing on it's golden shore
                                  
                        ­                   at the edge of an ocean where
                                          
                                                               every sentence,
                        
                              ­                                                            every­ syllable,

                                                                ­                                                 every utterance,

                            exhausted.

Your clothes can’t cover my memory
doe eyed girl full of intrigue
despite her,
she became a woman
breast that lay with you
such a fluid form
for a body so firm
like god couldn’t decide with you
I however have made up my mind
I am not your creator
but I can destroy you
even the wrecking ball eventually erects new structures
The French call it “Little Death”
I’ve named it after a pair of monuments to a moment,
glimpsed through thighs up to you
hungry
tongue lashing out
words cropped from two bodies
in solidarity

I only
know
how
going
there may take time
get closer
go faster
sleep softer
dream louder
I can hear marching
soldiers insistent
with a staccato spirit
kicking in your door

Isn't it all you ever wanted
to understand which parts of yourself
are huddled under the home somebody else
can make out of a word like grace
to hear an echo
would be to die complete,
satisfied that you did indeed
see yourself admired in the world
a bird dips on the wind
in the shape of a lovers body
while traffic
makes like ***
honking to move each other along
eagerly awaiting arrival  
here am I world
birth may have been adequately described as wet
death may be becoming dry
but nothin' is quite like catching life's eye
paper time drawing your mind
like the cornerstone
in some wild revolution