i am the flower
that blossoms
in the
minuscule
spaces
in between
the probability of beauty
&
the ​impossibility of
the
​cactus's
prickly
spite.
​​

blurbs, suburbs, writings, hasty tastings, fibres and frame, grilled, softened, appreciated, excruciatingly talented, genuis, hocus pocus spelled incorrectly, ironiclly, at the end of a misplaced magic trick, houdini in a fix and liking it, holden Caulfield with a girlfriend and a glass of champagne, mesmerized landscape architect workers tracing billions of samples and coming out insane, sane ****** monsters with no idea of where to turn to next, bottles of budlight, a crucifix,
misplaced, erase one memoiry, and another one emerges, out of a cloud, and it sits there for awhile, assured of itself, then once again, drops out of the race, a low bass chord, and the protagonist character takes a drag of his cigarette, and it’s all over

lost again.  thought I had found something, but then you seem to fall on your *** or wake up confused. that’s why the night makes more sense sometimes, because you can just let the night take away your sense of needing to get something done, the night doesn’t have any expectations of you.  The day expects things, the day beckons you.  The night is cold and careless, its when the bad things happen, its when the drinks happen, and all the good ideas happen, too.

Made it to art school, but you always knew you were too

coool

so you popped that gum in your mouth and blew out breath that was fresh, but found yourself in quite a mess, quite a beautiful, beautiful

mess

you loved some of the books, but what could they teach you? you love some of the teachers, but what could they preach to you?

escape artist made it out alive! HA

you walked in lowly to the art supply store bought yourself a drawing pad and a guitar, what a SCARE! what for, what for

you live on canned beans and stick to the paints and strings and the occasional
fling

your creations become serious and the songs become more profound, as your wild apartment blooms into a garden of spinning wheels

of spinning wheels

You take up a job where daydreaming is acceptable, and move on out of the way of your superiors when they walk in the room, punch in your time card, then continue on those silent a musings

jesting

throughout the day, throughout the day

you read very little and listen to even less but create a lot and thank the good lord for that!

The place smells of fumes and the streets beckon you, but you lay on top of the creations, high on it, high on it, high, high, high

high

YOU WHIP! YOU BANG! YOUR HEART IS SOBER FEEDING THE INSANE, you scrap everything

burn it
in a tin
can

and the clothes too

and your beard is long

you shave that too, yes

bloom, bloom,, bloom, bloom,

the next day you are ravenous and you eat five dollar burritos, two of them, you shave your head, in a  tank top

you are on fire, a wild vulture

DOO, DOO DOO DOO, DOO


THE WILD VULTURE IS ALIVE

NEW YORK CITY IS BURNING

FIRE ANTS, FIRE ANTS, FIRE ANTS

NEW YORK CITY IS BURNING

AND THE WILD VULTURE IS ALIVE

I think I'll sing instead
and shower
and look my best
and have a beer
and play a game, my video game
maybe I'll go down the block and buy myself a new jacket
because it is my birthday tomorrow
so, **** it

I've never wanted someone so much it felt like all I was ever doing was wait for them. There's always a designated area, always an assigned seat, always a reserved table. I still don't know what my boundaries are to loving you, but so far you've taken up my entire train of thought. The cart that was filled with my sanity is filled with the thought of wanting you; and I'm starting to lose my mind. I have no control over the route of these copper tracks. I don't know when I'm expecting to find myself laying beside these rails wishing things would have gone a different way. There's no heads or tails in the gamble of love. I've put my heart on the table, waiting to see what you're willing to lose and it won't be as much as I'm willing to give; but that's just my luck. I'm never the one who walks out with the better end of the bargain, I just want something to be mine. The something being you, the mine being me. Together in a game that I can make easy to play. A train ride that lasts long enough for us to be able to pinch ourselves and it still be real. A reserved area that no one gets the power of overtaking. I'm in for the long shot, I'm willing to risk it. Just come down to the station and and buy a one way ticket.

There's something about the time of year when the leaves start to fall that makes my eyes go from clear blue to stained glass. Something about morning breath that makes me wish I could stop breathing until I remember that no one will love me even if I'm under a headstone. There's something about the wind, something about a whisper that sounds like it's begging me to leave; but when I fear the power of gravity after I tie the rope, I feel like death is trying to tell me I'm not ready yet. There's something about the frost bite on my hands that has me wishing there was something more for my empty palms to grab hold onto. Something about the way the cold makes my lips tremble and my voice crack, but no one hears a **** thing. Something about the way I'm looking for eyes to melt in and restore the life in mine. There's something about the way the doormat makes me feel anything but welcome and how the slammed door yells at me that I should of never come in. Something about winter and the absence of you, makes me feel like I wasn't meant to see December.

I don't know how to tell you that I have found the love of my life in the corner of my hospital bedroom. He stands patiently. Watches me eager. Feeding me his hand-me-down depression. He could make me feel at home in a roofless shelter, make this rain feel like soft kisses along my skin, he could make razor blades feel like feathers. I have never known the true definition of flirting until seeing the hunger for my soul in his eyes. I don't know how else to tell you that I've found the love of my life. All I can say is that death has been begging me to stay the night, I've been choking on apologies. These days he's the only one who knows how to hold me.

I'm sorry I can't get anything out of my mouth without it sounding like I'm sorry. Even my "I love you"'s sound like apologies when I'm trying to confess it as though the feeling hasn't been rotting inside my chest for the past few months. I'm sorry that the welcome mat looks like an entry prohibited sign, I promise if you squint your eyes enough it looks a little more inviting. I'm sorry I'm always the first one out of bed in the morning, I've never been good at making people feel like I'm going to stay and I'm not going to allow you to get used to me in the sheets with you. I'm sorry that I flinch when you don't pour enough ***** in my glass, but I'd rather be numb by the last sip than the third serving. I'm sorry if I keep cutting the conversation short, your voice reminds me of him and it rings in my ears like the sound of someone telling you they don't want you anymore; and well, that's what he did. I'm sorry the bag under my eyes keep revealing my lack of sleep, but I've never been good at being alone in the dark and it's hard for me to find the courage and ask you to stay the night. I'm sorry I keep saying I'm sorry; I've  been weighed down with guilt for every pain I've ever felt and I'm just hoping that maybe you'll see why I write poems that can't be read out loud.