A simple fire,

Dowsed in the flammable decisions of a simple man,

Even the act of putting his words onto paper gives him the narcissistic relief of being closer called an artist, to himself, by himself,

He sees faces daily that are like ghosts now to the simple man whose mind meanders and thoughts get foggy,

Hours go by like seconds in his catatonic state,
Everything he does is a simple man’s choice where input is minimized and outcomes are swiftly forgotten,

Where memories from years ago bleed into what happened yesterday or the day before,
Each experience becomes an island,
Waking up with no connections,
Just an oceans worth of uncertainty,

Like a composer who hears the music of his orchestra for the first time and, oblivious, leads them into crescendo with a simple man’s insincere talents,

Absent, in many things, he tries to live as comfortably as he can with routine becoming a safety blanket that itches like hell in the middle of the night but still he manages to sleep most of his days away,

Every regret for everything he could be doing but isn’t,
Everything he shouldn’t be doing but is,
Lives on his scalp and the insides of his decaying cheeks,

Maybe it’s all just the summer heat getting to him.

She came with a timble to my lumish critch
Through borms
and grups
and a large, lectish, dish

‘Don’t bore me with your seminoad you Satin-Sir said she
‘So        cobble twibe! I replied for a gal as vimbly as thee.

‘Crickets are my namesake as they grift and leem with ease
Out in the plimmelday
                         where    
  ahoppybug                  should be.


The Plimmelday with sun       and gaype
A simplement of shine and life
Forever twibe on the high and narrow
A place where burdeves fear to bite


A gate surrounds the plimmelday
But Miss Cricket will be safe
A hareth ***** and Mr. Crick

A goodfar ways away.

How would I know it was her if she tried to hide in disguise?

As clever as she may think herself to be,
With a mustache as thick as a Redwood Tree,
I would hardly need wits to peg her identity,
Because I have learned a few truths that require her to be,
And they are as follows:

She is a herald,
Of inspiration and joy,
Moments merely mundane made miraculous by her being,
Make me write and smile.

She, a vision, floats again into mine,
Simultaneously sitting beside me she turns every jagged edge in the world into soft colorful things with all the warmth of a sparkling room filled full of familiar faces and old piano songs,
A girl whose eyes talk more than her lips and say things like, not so fast,
So just try and say that to me.

Thinking back now,
I have never seen her walk,
She seems to glide, to float, to hover, like she does in my mind,

And I would consider myself a fool,
A green, spontaneous, pup of pitiful perceptions,
A flight of short stairs without poignant reflections,
If not for the wild burning inside,
Caused by my dredging artist bathed in light,


I lose my heart from time to time because she gently leaves it for me to find at the bottom of the ocean,
A place where distance has not yet been conquered so nearness is still cherished,

In these depths I often see cankerous beasts swimming slowly among me,
Orbiting lazily like planets in space,
But I do not writhe in the deep,

And the beasts swim away, always onward to other prey,
So in the dwelling that I feared, I now want to stay,
Until I remember not to leave myself in such a dark place,
Without the presence of my perched herald there to say,
That even though the push and pull of the tides above are much to bear every day,

There is still the moon to calm the Seas,
And to light the thoughts of the men who will dream,
Of her.

She liked to play games,
Not in the malicious way,
And not in a way that didn’t make me want to stay,

She played like the way people feel the need to light up the night’s sky in the cities that she loved,
To make what is there different,
To shine a comforting, milky, glow over the natural state of sky that is known well by those
Whose veins pump a wealth of that dense black nothing into their chests until their hearts are heavy,
And their fun loving games are just an actor’s play,
Complete with a weekly Sunday matinee,
Featuring scenes from the girl who they think about too much during their day to day;
So just let it be what it is.

Let the sky at night make you feel small,
Like a strand of hair lost in a shifting pit of snakes,

Let your fear be too overwhelmed by awe,
To speak about things like you were on a hazy carrousel,
A fun up and down ride with no real need to dwell,
Because we are young and still have many coins left in our pockets to feed the machine,

Things do look funny when you pass by them quickly,
But if you would stop the ride,
And take the time,
To focus fully on the things outside,
You may still find yourself spinning.

The truth is, is that the truth is, as direct and striking as a visit with the night’s sky without the comfort of our own lights,
With a black that’s not broadcast,
Like the sleek coats of dark and powerful horses buried by the overwhelming snow of a crashing roof,
Trapped and still for an untold amount of time,
Because the memory of the image is too emotional to be measured by things as precise as seconds, minutes, hours.

They were poetry from a beautiful girl,
Who liked to play games,

She made my week by stepping off her carrousel,
And ridding on mine,
Until the golden sun fell,
And I ran out of time,
Too bad she died.

I chase.
Not because I’m sick of this dark place,
Not because living with more screens than people leaves me with a bitter taste,

Not because my legs feel well rehearsed,
As if not in motion they will be burdened by a lonely man’s curse,

Not because I have any sort of plans,
Not to make myself feel more like a man,
Not even to prove it to myself that I can,

I chase because if life is what we make it,
Then I have made you beautiful.

Because the sky gets soft and bleeds orange, red, and pink sometimes and it makes me wonder about what you’re doing.  

So even after I choke on the horrific taste of my own shoe’s lace, I take a break, listen to The Beatles, and get back to my chase.

I get back to trying too hard to impress,
Back to tapping out words on a phone that have never left my lips,
Because my thumbs are jealous of my other fingers who get to fly away on musical trips,
And say all I would want to say without feeling the need to draft phony Hollywood scripts,
So this is how my thumbs get back at me; with a swing and a miss!

There is a man, whose face is a furious shade that works inside my thumbs all day,
He works with steam and machines and monitors and screens and his windows see the same things through his altered bleeds of orange, red, pink, plus grey.
And the only good about him I can say,
Is that he tragically, always, clocks in on time.

Unlike me.

But luckily, there is only one of him and two of us,
You go for the legs, I will tackle his bust,
And I know our encounters have only been a simple brush,
But I think that we would have fun,
Using them to paint up something warm like the sun,

Whose rays I have missed but finally welcomed back,
And have forced me to think about living,
So I wrote you this poem.