a collision propelling to the imagination of afterworlds
twirling, crying out at the spiraling dizziness
ignited the wretched fire in the pit of his stomach
painfully the pinpricks settled to belittle and mock
to sneer and to gloat as the giddiness of his steps
rattled down the cobblestone street under
the yellow-waxing moon,
he howled grandiosely, dripping golden-honey
of his joy, his laughing wild ecstasy
the cold seethed and glittered frost on the stones,
unsettled this scene untold,
wondering how this young man
had room to grow,
he took a breath
cheeks burnt with fall's amber
and sprinted down the cobblestone and slippery dark
shrilling without intention, yelling indefinitely
and he ran without notion
and maybe that is what we all missing
from our lives,
a little weightlessness

There is something about it
The inexplicable curve in the diet
Swimming in pink grapefruit,
Sharing the stunted manifestation
Of a slice of clementine Gouda cheese
The way, the solace in a lone glass of wine
Chilled iced, purged crayfish
Flushed from the brittle salt basked seas
From the callused knuckle of stony fisherman
Casting out at the crackling array of dawn
With the waters brimming at the hulk
And the mast scraping it's white and red tusks
The fisherman who left at dawn
Leaving his beloved steeped in slumber...
Allowing her eyes flutter to the beam of pink salmon
And there is just something about it,
Pulsing from the faint flicker of overhanging bulbs
A writer stoops over a sliver of miracle
Purged from the raw etched in his vast chest
The very act of describing compassion & sin
With the ink soaked mechanism of his typewriter
The legacy of a young girl
Who wasn't meant to save the world
But to find it, the humanity whisked away,
Drowned perhaps by whiskey and alcohol
Eyesights deterred from the long lone walk
Pocketed with threats and head shakes
The writer's fingers fly,
And funny how there is something about it
How it doesn't end in full circle
That we lack the great capacity
To seize the flesh of truce
So distilled we sail,
So perturbed we write,
So empty we feast
Never quite knowing
That elemental presumption
Of something more

A bright wake of snow
Glimmering where
The grey meets sky
Forging and drifting,
Mounds and side sweeps
Banking against the tall
Pillars of trees
Pine and brisk peppermint
Trickling with the frigid chill
Tinkling wherein a sigh ascends slow
And crunch crunch
More silent noise to follow
Of hot, swirling breath
And Rosemary cherry cheeks
Curly blond hair and a pair of glasses
Glinting like the moon basked in glory
Her hands clutched
Nimble fingers wrapped around something
And with every step she took
Golden light radiated from the coals
Sheltered in her hands,
Hovering over her chest
The golden light rippled over the snow
An array of grass and orchids sprung
Wherever it willed
And thus the snow began to melt,
Taming the sublime spur of
The frozen maiden of winter's felt
The maiden of Spring puts forth
The blossoms and rich sweet air
The color of honey and petals which unfold
Spring walks through the forest of else
Where the cycles reroutes
Of begin anew, of life and something else

Perhaps the music blasting in our ears

The sidestep glance across the bakery counter

The honk of horns zooming fluorescents down the street

The gentle mummur of garlic sizzling on pans

The crunch of rich Italian bread soaked in olive oil

The sweat of leather soles

The mystifying fogginess as one touches a cheek

The relentless sputter of summer rain

The crackle of a brilliant smile

And noiseless or brimming with spectacles

We are most afraid of absolute silence

For that suggests our inability

To be a part of something

Bigger than ourselves