there's something
dangerous
about the way you pause
ever so slightly before
pressing your lips
to mine

it's as if the space
between our lips is
begging you to
keep your distance

because if you were
to proceed, you'd find
yourself in a world of
contradiction

you see, i am the moon
and i find myself
lusting after
the city

instead
of
the
sea
.

Holes are the result of what they had brought
to the millions of targets the wrath had wrought
In a power-fueled rage, spitting words venom laced
towards every one of those whomever opposed

To leave nothing of the earth but a mark with mirth
planting fleeting toadstool clouds, making gods proud
Ruins remaining will reside strewn both far and wide
the once plentiful signs of life cast at last into Æther  

a manufactured moment of silence
lies seen by the eyes of compliance

"My future ex-wife,
are you still alive?"*

The thought hit me as I was out of cigarettes one Monday morning, when I remembered that the previous night I was only able to smoke half of my last one. I had put the shorted cigarette underneath of a spring doorstop, still in plastic and uninstalled, that lay resting on the brick pillars erected on the front porch of the house. For as long as I've lived there, that doorstop had been lying on those painted bricks just waiting for a half of a cigarette to protect from the wind and snow.
The filter, on that common Monday morning, was ice on my lips, and your frostbitten love was inside of my lungs.
As it smoldered and spewed twirling blue swirls,
I sat and recollected upon you.