The nightingale’s
voice was the
song of the
moment of
when I opened
my eyes to the
light of what
I was once
unconscious
to, when
sunset
met with
moonrise,
In this
hour of
gentle
Idyll,
from the
voyage
& parting
of what
I have
known
before,
I now
become an
unconditional
part of your
heart, as
we held
stars in
our hands
closely
held,
our eyes
wandering
to their
shining
lives
as we
were
destined
to be, the
magic in
your soft
beauty,
what I
had been
seeking
all along,
past all
of these
waves
passing
on the
shore,
we hold
each
other
warm
with our
cups of
tea, as
I whisper
to you,
“hold me
closer,
dancer
of the
night,
for the
symphony
of our
union
Is the
answer
to the
question
of the
universe,
“what is
this truth
they have
told, that
I have failed
to see?”
as the bird
with the
velvet
song
flies
forever.

I can smile and tell people good morning. I can offer a helping hand. I can give my blood to save another. I can spare a few dollars to help out a cause. I can talk of hope and sacrifice and then live a life that reflects them. I can show kindness and give to others that which has been given to me. I am able to do what many cannot. I am willing to be there when others will not . I understand that my life is a gift and I should be sharing that gift when I can with others.

99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;

In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children

For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,

So let's dance

After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities

And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.

because we fell in love with the law
and fell out of love with ourselves.

because the ***** of great minds
wear pineapple fatigues in their fathers’ *******;

from Judas swallowing 9 bullets
to one day being a kid at heart
a symptom of some abnormality.

Ever get the feeling that you’ll die on a Tuesday?

Or one day wake up on their government bed
Screaming,
“you can blame the French Revolution
On silent reading!”

watching

as three teacups of *** plan war on the asphalt.

The blood of dinosaurs
pump through the soil
serving as cold platter
for the lit Norwegian cigarette  

The war of music pump paragraphs of hope
through the ear of youths
burning lips in pursuit of happiness.

In search of naked pictures of God in our mirrors,
the internet spent our laws and threw our only hallelujah out the sea—
and Arachne smiled, knowing she’s now the Womb—
and all men come in the belly of eternity in order to be.

floating lights 
and dark skies
sit on the phantom
heir as chair

a soft touch
a ripple 
in the deep
blue sea

paper chairs 
and crosses
float 
beneath 
the skies
as sheet

(the eye wake
gaze
at merry old
stars;
the ***** wonder )

we are weak
when we 
are poor
and meek
when we 
admit the tongue
did defeat

an old pair
of glasses
as glory

we all
 wither
                  all mouths
meet winter
i hope
to 
see
wall
grow flowers

before 
a machine
gives
birth.

Dear Adulterer

the present is the only girl worth living
for in her bed is where you
always are

time brings about the decay of perfection

always,
breathe

and lend half a knee to the ground

to send naked prayers to the sky
for wifi—
we are supposed
to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.