You're feeling jubilant as your eye captures the perfect illumination of a scene you've seen a hundred times, yet never perceived in this manner before. You ****** your old '85 from the snare of the paper-ridden desktop and keenly snap the staggered allure--until the low, guttural groan of the sprocket slices through your absorption. You abruptly lower the body to bury your misdemeanor within the unanimous truth of the data panel--but alas! Your aspirations are dissolved by the sudden rush of blood berating, "what a pillock!" As your cheeks fill with the crimson truth revealed in the seven-segment display partially reflecting your open jaw dappled like sympathy flowers atop the silent chastising of the slow-blinking "24".

Urdhva Hastasana
Salida del sol.
Her paws are bare
Ablaze against the black stone heat of the morning stroll
Pausing for the last monsoon, whispering
Salut?
There would not exist consequence for a dampened nose of pusillanimity
Carelessly drawn to the astrophysical realm of celestial bodies
Illuminating the chivalry once more.
We'll sing chansons
Oh cabaret!
The circumstance and pomp eliding
Lavishly rouged lips from sterling glances
Exposed by the slow and sultry raise of copper eyes
Premeditated, so that they lift in perfect timing
Beneath dark lashes to seem accidentally mesmeric.
I still lose amethysts
They drop from the back of my ears unexpectedly
Their plunge of contact against the water
Catches my attention but no more
Of a thought should surface except to surface
The stones from the depths pooling around my ankles.
The rain won't drain and hasn't for months
She scratches her hair but the pining never stops.
I rub her ears so she'll display such an ardor
Revealed in company and solitude simultaneously
To be weighed and doubted and accepted and declined
Beneath the stony gaze of the eyes of a god
Swindling a wrinkle in the shower curtain.
Alas what a shame it is
Besitos aren't quite fancied here.
Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux, Que la main des femmes balance.
Puesta del sol.

A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted  by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.

Simplicity will make its rounds
As it always does when I'm missing you.
I can tell you're missing me in the way you glance
Quickly out of the corner of your eye
As I'm fiddling with my ink and paper.

We make rounds with one another
Alternating shifts between affection
And you watch me almost instinctively
Perched upon your over-sized sofa cover
Disguising all of my dresses you imagined as "the one"
Floral, striped, simple brown like parchment paper.

But you are stowing away patterns that remind you of summer past.
Only now it's spring and summer's not yet arrived
A fact that until today remained unknown to me.
But of course  you'll be leaving soon
And I'll be wanting you
Even if so it was not enough, even more
In the nostalgia of unwritten details in the past.

They pattern themselves as soldiers awaiting deploy
Into some unknown battle with a sparkling eye
For they know not what love is;
They have only tasted it in envelope adhesive
And flittering longings of long-lashed exchanges
Of forward observations brought to attention
By none other than the golden-haired stable boy;

So they battle with a passion of longing instead.
They have traveled this road many times
And knowing what to expect, they
Delve forward despite disregards of the illumination
Of the embellishing light of Lady Moon
Upon the night to beckon their lustful eyes and bodies
To become one with their defenseless souls
Beneath the silvery threshold of her flowing *****.

You all remember the romantic fickleness of being fifteen, right?

Of course you do.

Everything was

Brand New. (But we faced the world with Bright Eyes)

Once again I’m sealing up my dried-on spilt blue dye

With a kiss between the lines of liquor boxes

Wondering in which book my nose was buried

During the moment that time casually hopped aboard

a timeless train with a clocked-out rate

Its silent departure breeding a fantastical escape.

Only the ironic forlon echo comes much later.

They don’t tell girls who waste their youth away between the lines of pseudonyms

Between the shelves of musty libraries

Every other warm summer day until dusk

Just how old you’ll feel in the reminiscence of inde-alternative and cardboard boxes.

Have     you ever

Wondered
                             how you would react

                --could react--

If you SUDDENLY

felt your neck snap by the hinges

       of the outboard spoiler
                                                  of a plane
Crashing

                       through shingles and plaster

Right through your favorite

                          Bob Dylan poster

Hanging on your  bedroom wall.

        Or
if you awoke in a lake

            of fire

And realized you were wrong.

There is a bottle under my bed
Clear with three mutilated holes and no cap
Along with three ***** of crumpled foil
A pile of downy laundry at my feet—
The race of black lace at the bottom
Of a boat I’d rather not step into so my mother won’t relay to me her dreams
Of my possible alternative sexuality she’s subconsciously sensing and actually begin to question why I’m so awkward around my—
I keep hidden under exactly two blankets
So my imagination won’t tickle my toes and in turn, my senses.
This isn't my comforter
But it does comfort more than the preceding, this
Brown quilt spotted with creamy, leafy stars
Is only familiar to the depths of the hall closet
—That dings a precise pitch that I’ll measure tomorrow when opened—
So these walls will emit less lime and more depth to the time as to shallow out the savage speed of the
Hands no longer ticking above my head.