"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
*******. The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.

Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-

Mine?

Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.

Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"

"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."

I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside

I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-

Beauty is the greatest lie

Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise

imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake

but have never even opened their eyes.

Were Love a fragrance,
would it settle like a hummingbird
at your throat- or would it become
trapped under your hair, shimmering pinkly
oxytocin shaken out in your bursts of joy
Love, like an orange peel.

Would it be that sound is the body of Love?
Is it tucked into your quiet sighs
as forever as a child, is it the raucous laughing cry
of delirious grandiose 2am Love on crowded streets,
or afternoon halfsleep philosophies on the human condition?
Or the very quiet promises, and Love is the vow.

All she wanted her horoscope to give her
was a sock-foot cozy kind of relationship.
One that wore SPF 30 and smelled of sugar candy.
That would have been just fine.

Instead she got a surprise pancakes kind of beast.
Bear hugs, dog kisses, *******,
sumptuous battles, book aisles, 2am feast
and little silver spoon in the middle night.  

We never made it to the papers,
so we built a patch-quilt nest.
The quirky loving is alright,
you dress me in my Sunday best.

Be yourself cause everyone else is taken.
Because everyone else is faking.
Life is yours for the making,
All that money making
Ain't worth what they making.
They just making bread
They not Caking.
I over here
we celebrating,
Records spinning
Until I break them
These moves you gotta make'em
The time is yours for the taking
Being broke could never break him
Got me going hard, causing mayhem
While haters try to slay him
too busy balling to even play them
To focused to pay attention
Not even an honorable mention
On my path
Had it coming
Now it's time to make that day
My mind Manifest and I stood the test
Now my blessings are on there way.

the light the heat
in your eyes*
Peter Gabriel

there is a thunder in your eyes
when wild horses graze in blue quiet sunsets
there is air in your fingertips

I hear
this dance with silence
and how I need to learn
to stay still
in that thunder
in your eyes