Shankar smiled as the waves crashed
To the drop of the bass we were
Alive and breathing subconsciously
Losing all air to the cry of peculiar felines
And there existed a flittering longing 
Once common perception returned.
My hair was threaded gold 
Beneath your fingertips.

I once found my heart in Catawaba
Where the blue cornflowers flourish between
Arabesque petals floating from the snowy dogwood trees
Encasing the air with the thick fragrance of innocence
You took from me beneath the dying maple tree.

The monotone cubicle in which you thrived
Wouldn't suffice for the rose petals lingering
Between your flushed lips drenched pale in the moonlight
Breathing "You are beautiful"
Smoking cigarettes with your mind.

Some days I think I could love you
If the grass was green enough
If I didn't associate your musk with the flannel
I search for at every goodwill
At every thrift store
Trying them on relentlessly
Button up, button down
As if each little plaid square could shrink my ******* smaller
Stretch my back vertically
Aesthetically speaking.

Some days I think I could love you
If was smaller and wiser
If I could believe in nothing
Rather than the absence of something
Every time I close my eyes and pray once more
Beneath the shadow of the hospital-tainted shower curtain.

Some days I think I could love you
If I remember the piercing blanch
Of whiskey burning in the back of my throat
If I recall the tears in your eyes on a mid-May afternoon
Standing closely in a gravel parking lot
Telling me "See ya later" instead of goodbye
Kissing my forehead, nose, and eyes.

Some days I think I could love you
If you told me it didn't matter how prominent my collar bones are
Or that it didn't take the catalyst of pickling my insides
******* a lonely man while you were away
To make you want for me.

Some days I think I could love you
When you trace the lines of my waist
Asking me not to lose any more weight
When you tell me I'm beautiful
That you envy my heaven
When you ask to see me simply to hear my thoughts.

Some days I think I could love you
If you told me you loved me
If that alone didn't set you apart from the rest
Aligning yourself a whole in one with the others
Only greater.

Some days I think I could love you
If I couldn't recall the misshapen line
Between a large vocabulary and eloquencey
Between a man and a frightened boy
Between an eating disorder and self-motivation.

Some days, I think I might love you
If I could silence my mind of all the fragrances of adultery
If I could leap elegantly past the fear of such a concept
Without wondering how I appear to you compared to the rest.

Some days I think I could love you
If I could forget that you can't
If I could remember how to open my own hatch
Without fear, as the key
If I could remember to love myself.

Some days, I think I could love you
Some days, I believe it.
Some days, I don't.

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.

They always said curiosity killed the cat.

Rat-ta-tat-tat.

Insignificant, curly shavings of thoughts slap the pink cerebral walls,

Porous with confusion and intellectual growth.

Experience.

Plump veins intricately woven between billowing realms of data

developing, destroying, at an electrical pace

Pulsing hollow answers like a motherless hooved heart ******* venom from Daddy’s fingertips

Menacing raindrops

On the tin roof over the shelter where too much dust collects

And Mr. Potato head and his family slowly disintegrate

On a day where the sky split

and tears dropped out

and all of those **** pillows

Just couldn’t catch them.

Wringing a grey water cloth

From the aquatic fabric we’ve always dreamed of consuming

Or sleeping under and over and in between.

Stomach full of liquid.

Black eyed peas

And obsession with relish

Finally paying off.

Trees

Collages

Dancing

Seductress.

Knowledge

Healing

­Three small boys dressed as their fathers

Playing checkers

Giggling

Marimba chops

Echoing

Twice stolen earphones

Volume control

Old south

1933

Shallow grave

Shallow sleep

Fresh cars

First to drive

Survive.

Sonic

Pescetarianism.

Cherry Lime-ade

Walking on the

Green grass

REM interrupted

Curious hands

Laced between

Fingers

Three sizes smaller

Sinking

unbiased truth

peeking an ugly face

around her corner.

Talk of mustaches and

****** orientation

The price of documentation.

Embrace

certainty within confusion.

Tuesday.

Salt breezes through the door
Swish, swish
sings the shore.
Your glass is raised
Your conscience bare.
Sweet fidelity fills the air.
Floorboards creak,
Louder, then softer, a meek
Pitch you recognize
An octave beneath your demise.
A ****** aftermath of flowing wine
Fills those eyes, the scalp, those ears
His ****** wine were once your tears.

Rinsing over porcelain skin

Skin still too pale for the end of summer

Washing, cleansing, every curve, every bend

Water droplets gather in pools around my unpainted toes

Parachuting raindrops released from freshly-trimmed ends

Of hair that will soon disappear

Naked green eyes clear of disoperation

Gaze at the foreignness of this summer waterfall.

I part my lips to taste the mountain air

Condensed into a life source

Icy in July, fresher than filtered

A German Shepard gazes at my silhouette

Caramel and black, fur bristling with excitement

With kind brown eyes

Sparked with curiosity,

Lapping the water with his pink tongue.

Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.

Zealous, confused.

Determined.

Hopeless, hopeful, excited, stressed, fatigued.

Striving. Restless.

Energetic, rainy, electric, stormy, salty, uncomfortable

Awkward, intelligent, frustrated, wise

Loving, sharing, caring, sacrificial

Appreciative. Defined, blurry, delirious

Lonely, rough, smooth

Shattered, glued.

You’ll pretend I believe in nothing,
I’ll pretend you do.
They all existed in some form of another.
Delicate mortal form.
Thanks for the fine and dandy.
Thanks for the sallow smiles turned upright.
The cheer.

Ready.

Prepared.

No plans, just an infamous execution of each day.
Days begin growing warmer,
but I’ll pretend summer isn’t close by.

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.

London lobster pie
Served with a side of strawberry
Plus one, please
A dinner date.
A musical extravaganza to
Beautify the hideous
Surgical aftertaste.
A peace of mind is collected
Engrossed in adventure
The uncanny youthful exuberance
Of energy flow through
Stained glass windows.
Watercolor painted pews
Inside a church that was never
Meant for entering.
Robotic, the horses
Gleaming with sweat
Drudge the asphalt,
Children’s fingers dripping
Sweaty ice cream.
Sun visors and family disputes.
It will never be the same.

Inspiration arrives in the wee hours of the morning

Like a fresh snowfall that won't stick

Teasing, tickling my brain

Inducing a rumbling hunger for snow cream and chapped cheeks

A floating half-cadence

Stinging like the stale metallic aftertaste of the cavity I can't see

But I know I need filled

Like the hole you left when you were digging behind my back

Smiling beneath my feet and I fell a little deeper

Like you did into me under the Everclear

Night sky after we dropped

Altering our minds in a place we called home

In the company of our tribal community diving head-first into pursuit of personhood

By the hand of a tedium spring and temporary cushion

Where the new members must've watched behind closed lids

Before another night like the previous nights consisting of little sleep.

There's an assignment to complete

Suppressed by the urge to go for a night run to strengthen those thighs

I didn't intend to open, I swear to God

I never intended anything to result in this

Unresolved half cadence in the i-V-i progression

That I didn't compose on the theory test

I didn't pass today because I didn't finish.

There exists no focus to the wisps of ideas slapping these cerebral walls

Like lingering tendrils of broken thread and splattered paint on a drunk summer night.

It's too chilly now on the off days and perfect on the on's

So I will wait, patiently, more or less

To avoid dropping the wisps and distasteful run-on sentences

Into your feigning palms willing to grasp me again

Because what the hell else would I do?

Peace.
White lilac atmosphere
Laced with Autum’s farewell
A fragrant kiss whispered into his lover’s ear
Moistening the staid air
With a sweetness
Of chlorophyll.

A green so rare
A jade for writhing.
Lilacs bloom, daffodils, roses
She fearfully forebodes the night
And waits for him.

Too cruel for snow
An icy caress of stoney lips
An arrogant tease of affection
Crimson petals
Frosted in the blackness
Only to be comforted by mother’s loving arms
When morning blooms.

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 *****.

Locked-legs.

Smooth to the touch, intertwined,

In the most innocent of ways.

Strong against frail

Breaking pale against pale

Meows of week-old kittens that paint a smile upon our faces

Serotonin overload, charisma can’t hide

Charisma won’t try.

Seeds leap over backwards for a word in edgewise

Attempting to control this spillway, it cannot be safe

For a cat like me

In a city of your pace.

Remember the pitch of the leaky faucet

In the third floor restroom

Neither male

Nor female

Nor both.

Speaking in unison

That pitch

What was the ******* pitch

Dribbling eighth notes

Tears worth pinning on your wall

Next to your unused bottle of sunscreen

From the time we drank in your living room

And I realized you cared.

There is a star on my pocket

But I won’t remember it tomorrow

Nor will I remember why

I connected the six-petaled flower hole

To Afganistan. Sleek. Smooth.

I slid a straw through my ear

Gazing past the green disoperation

And noticed two formings of pimples beneath the right brow

But maybe I imagined that too

Along with the adrenaline and curiosity and false negativity.

Shooting through my ankles

Enveloping every muscle fiber

Every menacing footstep

I approach the door of Debussy

Wading deep into the kelly green

“Open” sign

Sharpied just so no one ever flips it.

Every frazzled hair follicle  executes

Frustration towards the poor soul

Entering doom.

Marracas from elementary

I whispered beneath my mustache

“Fancy seeing you here”

Lingering my capillaries over their stitching

A live animal in a dead environment.

Pink toes and the Sostenuto pedal

Beckon my return to civilization

I remember why I’m here.

I remember why I’m not.

You’re the reason

My mother worries

Over the prominience of my collar bones.

It was your back

The time I dug too deeply

and repeatedly apologized, giggling

Laying across your chest

Cooling on the green and white striped sheets beneath.

I worry I’ve disintegrated the last thread

Of the daisy chain

Pinned to your wall.

Paper Man had brilliant hands.
He smoked at the corner store
Where the ginger girl
Can't keep her man steady
with pitch black locks.

Every day, in and out
A northern escape to a southern route
Worn thin by pasty toes.
Those cigarettes lit his world on fire.

Peeling away, yellow and aged
Engraving lives between red ended lines
He brought color to the tall tales
Reincarnated beneath Mother's wrinkled eyes

He smoked ignorance, rolled in bliss
With closed eyes between dusted rock
Aged with lies and peeling paint from the windowpanes
With curly blonde esteem, chanting his name
Drifting between salty pines
Never settling for another grain
Of a lesser design.

Paper Man, that was the plan
A scribbling upon burning paper
Ashes to ashes, they all fall down
Never brought to life
Paper Man made a stand.
The floating bark of the lemon tree still whisper his name.

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.

It’s the sugar on your tongue.

It’s the ignorance at your side that encourages

The cane to slither off that flavorful muscle.

I don’t remember how it tastes. I obtain no desire to.
What happened old chap?

You used to own the world with that sickle.
Does it hurt?

That prioritized thumb

Pinning your will with darts.

Wriggling your way into false self-explanations

As to never admit defeat. But old pal, you know it’s true.

You've hit the bulls eye,

You've met your match.

Walk the tracks.

I felt your presence today.
Beaming rays of your smile surrounded me
I knew it was only you
Thieving the sun of its glory
Bowing,
Allowing your smile to illuminate the world instead.

I felt the warmth of your sisterly embrace
Your silken hair caressed my cheek
As the March breeze wrapped around me
Your golden rays disheveling my skin.

I hear my name, whispered
Sifting through the branches of the dogwood tree
A thick accent enveloping me in the disappearing leaves
You are here.

You're surrounding me
Drying my tears with a short wafting of spring breeze
Laughing, the way you always do
You are with me.

I gaze towards the heavens
Meeting the vibrant blue of your eyes
And I feel you
The way the blind cannot see
But must feel.

**You are still here.

Blue tinted glasses
That you’ll never see
Properly through
Unless it’s a copper correction
Of the thinning stomach
Or the grey eyes
Grown salty and green
As the fruit salad
Frustration sloshed down
In twenty-five bites
Of thirty-two chews
And a thousand swallows
Singing over the exclamations
Your mother exerted
Over ten-thirty yoga exercises
Illuminated at three in the morning
On a half baked mind
And a restless spirit
Pining over insights
Realized over twice more
In the company
Of blue tinted glasses.

I care too much

I care not enough.

No one has ever marched

To the beat of my drum.

Dum diggita dum

dum diggita dum

dum diggita

dum dum

dum.


A funeral march

Progressive boredom over the course of my years,

It's a choice.


Throw in a good drink and a good show,

Call me content.

Call me anything you like but a waste.

A waste of time, money, air and space.

Call me a waste. I’ll wake up.


I’ll awake a year ago in my dumb love’s bed, thinking

of the last of his and the first of mine. I’ll show you a waste.

A waste of lines, of lies, of love and of time.

A waste of virginity down the drain, a waste of heartache,

of razor blades,

and pain.


Don’t call me a waste.

Let me sleep in my bed alone

my new cotton scent drowning

away the wasteland of stress pooling beneath my eyes.

Their cigarettes smell the same.

The rain
The hail
The tears
And you’re not in your bed
But in a wicker hut
In the middle of a rain forest
Like the ones from my third grade A.R. Reading time
You’ll feel my skin softer than before
And I’ll wonder what is different
And draw close to your unusual warmth
And you’ll ask me “what am I doing”
And we won’t fall asleep for 5.5 hours
I’ll envision spiders in array
Yellow jackets attached to the flowers I ring around skylers crown
And wonder where the hell I am
And why I feel so hot
Burning cash in the back of my throat

Of a bowl I never smoked

It rained

I said goodbye

I noticed the red rims of your eyes

Turning away

I bought flowers and tore away rye with my teeth

And drove down the avoided road

Looping around to scare away sadness.

I found more happiness in this

Stomachache I slept away

Than the vine-wrapped walls where I presumed

Happiness lived.

I will inscribe a scribe's favorite scripture
Inceptively distinctive to your woeful mind
An inspirational frame I will capture
Between the fluff of your pillow
To detain the tendrils of yesteryear, floating
Beneath the purple of your sallow
Eyes I am denoting
With every kiss of mine to each lid
So that dreams will inspire instead of forbid.

Where to begin?
From the top, I suppose
Of the proverbial mountain
Standing steadfast
Slowly penetrating
The indigo mist spiraling
The pinnacle
Peaking through the
The unified particles gathering
In bent-up lines
In pent-up times.

Electric
Against my own your skin is pressed
Entranced by optical pools
Enchanted by what lies
Beyond the colored flecks
of jade and chestnut we digress
Melting into a single texture.

Easy.
Steadfast and consistent despite
The prodding lecture
Of suspended disbelief
Unleashing ourselves
To the ambient
Four-dimensional
Placating the phenomenal
Perceived through the "right kind of eyes".

Gleaming yet gleaning but still
Guiding, this compass
That encompasses the raw
Torn-back flesh and ego
Scored and sacrificed by nameless
Aboriginal ancestors
Arching their bows with
Aim to eradicate
Foul ideas and fallacies
Judged beneath the squinted
Eye determining the deadly course
Of another forced
Self-consuming
Twisted moral paradigm.

They salute with self-satisfactory smiles
To relieve the conflict of conscience
Regarding blood-splattered soil
Salting the vague consolation: sputtering,
"This too shall pass, my brother".
Comforting one another
With the zip of
Vibrating strings
Pulsing against the
Weathered fingertips
In imperfect time.


Curving cedar lines
Poised with precision
Resemble and assemble in fragments
The urge to protect and preserve
The curve of a lover's spine
Bent-over and braiding
Long locks for war
Sitting cross-legged
On the dirt and hide floor.

In under three days
You'll peel my skin away
My flesh seeps menthol and freezes in your pores.
Beneath this embrace we'll sojourn
Between threaded calves and ankle-bones we breathe faint snores
Clenching our eyes against the rising yellow of morn'.
Within three weeks
I'll have forgotten to eat
Your caress rattles my bones and sparks a flame in my spine
Curving against your slender torso in transit
Your clockwise caress on my scalp bowering your fingers in vines
Planting a firm kiss on my neck as if you're sowing a gambit.
Entwined with the grey dawn we became aboriginal
Beguiled in our hypnagogic state, candid and inexplicable.

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".

I can still recall
The energy of your fingertips
Rolling off your salty tongue
Peppering my skin with the tingly arousal
Of your lonely eyes
Longing for human contact
In a ***** soaked sofa
At the breach of dawn.

Are you bound by free will 

Like a bird objected to fly

Why do you find peace in solitude

Yet your eyes won't cease to cry

Why do you clutch thorns

When the roses have let go

Why are you  trapped in simultaneous love

When you already know how the story flows

Have you ever felt dead in your own skin

Because you've given it all away

Yet somehow the ****** trenches of yesterday 

Paint a smile upon your face

Why do you protect others 

By dissolving yourself

Silly girl, you better get a grip

Before you lose it on yourself.

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.

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.

Lately you’ve saturated my Consciousness
Watering me down as the
Hard ground weeps
Dryly, dust to mud
In a southern summer drought
Although I’ve never thirsted for you.
Quenching yourself in Xanax
Drenched in whiskey
You took from us what we didn’t
Know we were
Missing just as the hole through
Your skull opened and
****** you out bit by bit
Till by a crimson thread
You were left lingering
Your body feigning
Alone in the night
Under the pines
Yearning for a brighter light.

Your fingertips
Trail
My shoulder
Inconspicuously
And we pretend we don't notice.

You are the most beautiful
Person that has ever existed
Real or otherwise.