I've tabbed
Hello Poetry
and PornHub,
and I'm here
writing this,
I need a bit
of foreplay

She kisses the boys and girls
that pay the most attention.
The boys play with vapor
and her girls play with tension.
I wish I was the only one
that she will decide to touch
but I am who I am
and, in a way, that is too much.

Sawblade-sunflower petals
wrap around an earthy cushion,
and the humidity hangs in the air
as her beige body is crumpled
and I feel too sober, pushing.

Baby yellow falls apart,
in her hair the flower starts
to trickle onto sheet and pillow,
decorating the absences
that define how hollow
she and I have felt before --
******* like an endangered species
on the killing floor, I whisper once,
I whisper sweet, "Don't you wish
that we didn't meet?"

She kisses the boys and girls
that give the most attention.
I played with vapor
and she played with tension.

A crisp and solemn early autumn
with fallen leaves,
shivering hands,
deathly quiet.
Then heavy breathes,
searching for some kind of warmth.

Yet it has gone,
the warmth of summer,
yes it has fallen away with the leaves,
and he has breathed his last.

Shivered hands do quake under this cold,
deathly quiet,
darkness.

Yet he has gone,
his life,
fallen with the leaves,
another death in this crisp and solemn early autumn.

If you knew the depth of my disbelief
then you would know the reason
I walk in shadows

all the truths that pass as lies
and misconceptions
feeble minds dream you see
in subtle nudgings off the grid

the comfort of the unaware
is a sharp stick in my side
I must tell these truths in bloodied tongue
for even a feigned look
holds some comfort

when the smirks subside
in the holy bliss of truth
I will have long left the great lie
I will have watched from the shadows
with my children and my children's children
as it unfolds like Sunlight upon the shadowed moon

enveloping the enlightened souls
the few that remain

“why don’t you write a book?”

they’ll expect
a second

if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book

“you should write a book”

poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides

no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate

you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape

i feel
like
space
given
shape,

a web
crawler
whose spinnerets
spit out
time,

leading toward
something
genuine and
whole and

present.

fear does not define me.
i am energy,
incarnating

now.

things can be silly.
i can allow myself
to feel

joyous

without stressing about
capturing the moment -
enjoying things as they come..

i am density
in hand with
fluidity.

i am
river rock
and rivulet -
i sit, center,
pool,
eddy

and
swim off

downstream.

Beyond the box his victims applaud
the enemy smiles and takes his bow
behind his smirk there breathes a fraud
the devil dressed in praise of thou
he snares their hearts should they be weak
those seeking to control their fate
a purchased path to lead the meek
to a matrix God through the neon gate
with hands outstretched he pleads and grins
sells salvation like drugs and mocks their sins
will promise eternity in the holy light
call the number on your screen
you are saved tonight