the school yard picnic tables had a lost and found.
sewn together was a book of miscellaneous cities
where fools were growing together and
churches were picking themselves up.
they used anchors and rope to sew us together,
much like the systems they used for shipwrecks
and fallen warriors,
but we found glaciers to lead us back home.
we followed the shelves of mountains and
the roof of skies.
written in the wooden planks were tales of
men dying from broken hearts, but so what?
we let our hearts murmur and bleed bold acts of
brilliant gestures.
we were two fools growing together.
we forgot the cities in our pockets,
hoping that concealing could
accommodate how we really felt.
heart murmurs could skip some beats,
but we want each moment to end up
on our feet.
we just hoped that the glacier roads
will take us where we need to go.
the arrows were colored coffee grounds,
we were almost belligerent from the
flask full of body language,
and my wooden teeth were chattering
from the touch of falling atmosphere.
emergent empires, frozen to our road
had heavy hearts pumping through,
trying to reach to us.
it had my attention, and it spoke
through capillaries leading to our toes.
we left with train wrecked eyes
and faith leaning on our sleeves,
because we realized that you never have really
lived because you have never really died.
so let our hearts murmur bold intentions and
we will follow the glaciers home.

we are all made out of house fires,
smoke has filled out our frames and
our throats are held up by burning
structures.
electrical impulses shock us back to life
and the matches flare the tears of
hope and tears of relief
as we watch the paint melt from our
porch.
we think of it as doubt washing off
our steps and sometimes we need
to build off of facts from the basement
stored away in cardboard boxes.
all we have left is references and
yet faith is all about that.
we are all intertwined at the nose tips,
and our breath can been seen from miles.
that's where things get lost,
our tears of hope and tears of relief
are put onto stretchers for the ambulances
to evaluate how our lives are really going and
we all know the weight tied to our ankles are
cords from the light fixtures.
sometimes the darkness can put them away.
sometimes a fire is bolder than
our free will and sometimes
the ashes create history.
our ashes will tell stories of the
tears of hope and the tears of relief
that our doubt melded to the earth
so we'll never forget our roots.
we will never forget where we came from.
the breakers will cause sparks up our spine
but this will just accelerate how we will
douse the flares and accept the tears of
hope and tears of relief when the come
running down our chins and realize how
simple it was to let embers fold the alignment.
this is where we begin building off of the burn
we started with.

the art of war has been written
in our skin since the first day
we tasted air.
our bodies knew what to do
without instruction, the manual
was ingrained in our systems
before history was even a term.
we knew what struggling was and
the viciousness we'd follow to
feel satisfied within this
paper-hungry, corrupt involving,
power revolving circle of
soil and H2O.
green paper values beyond
human experience, holding its
own wealth above the truths
and acts of kindness.
we are lost now.
our journey to create solutions
and deflate violence, pollution,
and terrorism is counterproductive
when we are only trying to gain
access to fossil fuels,
advanced technology and
easy living.
the art of war is unavoidable with
its nuclear power reaching new
heights and alarming increases
in neighboring countries with
alternative motives.
people are not perfect, but yet
it is hard to use intelligence
towards innovated, structured
education and trying to revitalize
our dying environment or restoring
it to the way our ancestors knew it.
we are too curious now.
the devices we use daily are
hand held miniature and superficial
to honest thoughts even if you may
have the universe at your fingertips.
the art of war is within ourselves, with
the growing population of overweight
eight year olds - instead of gaining
knowledge about life by learning how
to use the imagination, creative
engineers are mass producing game
consoles and virtual worlds for the young
to push past the reality.
we want to be lost now.
society takes tragedies and sensationalizes
so there is just another portal to dig up
the fresh and uncover something bigger
than ourselves.
the art of war has been finalized with
456,495 troops estimated stationed overseas,
leaving at home their families.
our state of mind is grasping, like the hardworking
fathers in search for american made products,
yet can only find poor industry made objects
for $5.00 on the shelf of the local monopolized
superstore.
the art of war was born in us
with airtight top secret plans to defeat
another continent, but we all
swallow the voice to bring back
compassion for starving children and
focusing on the here and now.
the art of war is all around us,
the art we will never escape.

you always kiss my in betweens,
and it's like you are rubbing salt
in sore cuts or
you are always trying to prove to me
that i'm just thinking too much.
we play cat and mouse when we are bored
because the chase is better than
sitting alone,
but being alone doesn't mean
i'm lonely -
if only you knew what that
entailed,
the taste of simple silence
drowning out everything that
couldn't be
or
the fact that space can
heal more than just cuts.

i guess i value my well being
more than i do about
the little things
that hold
nothing
absolute.

you smell of clementines and
i kept my windows open during
the storm so i could see you
coming in from the back porch.
i sometimes feel as if tricks are
played on me as if i was made
out to be dumb or the devil
had nothing better to do with
its time,
but time has nothing to do with
how the stars were made or
where we first met.
i always thought it was funny
that the others would call you
fish, but i love the way
the r's in your name roll
off my tongue like i was
singing spanish melodies
only loud enough for your
ears.
we rarely argue because
it isn't worth the bitter
that builds up,
like hard water minerals
from the well,
the moments before
lightening,
the seconds it takes
to lift off from the ground.
my thoughts run off the
tracks when i'm talking
business on the phone
and you fold your origami
thoughts onto my
unsuspecting skin.
you left creases in my bones
and let my swinging
moods pump its legs
until there was nothing left
but shallow breaths and
***** words coming clean.
i can't help but realize that
your pure patience could
put my splitting nerve ends
at ease for the second time
today.

you gave me a necklace
made out of insults.
i didn't give it back to you
because you didn't even
see the glint that ran across
my eye.
it moved so quickly,
like numbers in the sky and
all i can really remember is we
both had coffee breath.
you said we were so similar,
logistically,
but i have yet to figure
the formula.
i wish i had a calculator for that,
but i'm only strong with words
and structures that build us up
on midnight talks and the fact
that we all struggle.
i'm struggling to read you
because you aren't in the news
or fictional in my summer novels,
and that means we are by no means
dreaming under the hard moon
that always seems smaller from
where i stand.
i am beaten by reality and
i feel so little because i once
thought i could be so
invincible to you.
we used to play games in the
car, even though it was to
neglect the thoughts
that fueled the shoe to
pressed down a little heavier.
i knew i had to,
so we could reach the only
destination that we could
taste in each other -
we wanted the lungs of a jellyfish,
        (even if they don't have lungs or gills)
the control over the weather systems,
to touch the northern lights
like it was ours to keep.
we wanted things to be fair,
the voice of billie holiday,
some luck to launch our bodies
into sweet, sweet peace.
we only wanted to see something
beyond the borders of what we
have discovered so far.
we only wanted so much more.

i had dynamite in my front pocket,
reading lines from my wrinkles and
we were fighting chemistry as if
we had the choice.
we threw our numbers into the air to
tie to the telephone lines that were
tangled with tree fingers,
or maybe they were strings from
the instruments in our laced up
lips that held truth for what it's worth.
we would hum melodies in the bathtub
and laugh when we'd fall for each other
all over again.
when you held birds on your shoulders
i made you bracelets to show you
the way you pulled my knots
and it feels so good when you do.
i threw you the ropes that swung
the wrecking ball into my walls and
you took them with grace.
i wish i was as graceful as you,
when i look up to give you feathers
on your lips.
i always seem to stumble,
like you have control over my steps
and sometimes i fight my laughter to
keep up with you.
the wind looks like your reflection
at times and i can't help but
wonder if you are superhuman
with ocean eyes and setting me
alight without convictions and
yet i wouldn't mind always being
in your chest cavity,
to feel your beats in time with
mine.