You gave her bouquets of branches,
because she saw more beauty
in sticks than flowers.
And today I was asked what phase
the moon would be in tonight,
to decide how discreetly
he could kayak on an overly patrolled lake,
beneath the stars.

Seven cigarettes and others,
to ease the tribulation of a
warm lonely summers night,
where unplanned contacts,
led to strange content.

A book and a boy and a pen,
and a thousand words
that had yet to be inspired,
through a faulty habit
that took paychecks and too many hours.

Darkness molded itself around my peripherals,
like the ones your grandfather watches baseball out of,
and the love that pushed through the cloudiness,
to enter my cornea with grasping motions
from pretty faces with laughter to spread but no dime to spare.
They are the reason why

In a small church parking lot
I found beauty in the delicacy of change,
and the way things can crumble
and bloom,
so very near to each other.

The arrival of June ushered in a new era of heat.
The river, instead of being a place to have fun
became a mean of survival.
To escape the heat is clear your mind.
To dive deep and sink your fingers into the cold sand beneath the crest of the water
is to reach a state of true peace.

I would never tell a human being to smile more.
Smiling is something that when forced, holds more negative effects than not smiling.
A boy I love isn't smiling sincerely as much as he used to,
and I'm not going to tell him to smile more,
only that he deserves to.
The only thins this boy does is spread love and happiness.
Whether or not he has his guitar he creates music.
The manner in which he breathes causes love to occur.

I've already smoked most of my cigarettes while the night (along side my six pack of Angry Orchard Hard Cider) is still young.
The stars are outside
and in a few moments
when my head clears a bit I will join them.
I have so many places I could go.
In fact, the options are limitless.
There's the church parking lot across the street,
or the forest beyond it, hiding pleasant little benches to sit upon.
There's my favorite spot as of late
which is simply a bucket which sits next to my truck which sits in my parking spot on the street.
There's always my truck, which could take me to many far away places but I've already had a few beers and don't trust myself to that.
I could stay inside, and not greet the stars.
I could simply stuff a towel under my door, turn the fan on, face it out the window and smoke
but the house is stupidly hot and the stars, I would miss.
I could also stay inside,
write what i call ****** poetry
and what one beautiful girl cried about
and not smoke.
Bud *******, I want a cigarette.
Looks as if the bucket will be seeing me soon.

Reflected onto the face of the sun is you.
You, who shine so bright
are an everlasting symbol.
A symbol of what?
Of the moon, of the stars.
Of it all.

And at the end of the day when I think about you
and I think about all of them,
The Boy With The Sunshine Face,
The Boy I Love More Than All Others,
The Boy With The Bandanna,
The Girl Not Named George Lopez,
The Girl Inconveniently Wearing Boots,
and all the others,
I think about love.
And I think about this group
and how we will undoubtedly fall apart.
And I think about how there's nothing we can do about.
Things change.

*I'm the same, trust me. It's only that everybody else is different

roll with the punches baby try not to shatter while you wait to
feel it
it might take a while for every synapse to come alive but
i promise you'll feel it in the end
light up like a christmas tree with every nerve impulse 100 watts your body
will light up the room.
you cast shadows on the moon and i wonder why
is it so cold?
(this wasn't what i wanted when i picked up a pen,
but it seems
like every poem becomes part of you
your blood runs in these pens and i can't help writing about you and your
talus -
that word means both
jagged rocks when you look down from a cliff and oh is this what you want
and the bone of your heel
that you grind into my chest and ****,
i think
that sums you up
pretty well.)
because your sparks were always the best thing about you,
when you short-circuit and sputter and all your lights flicker your synapses
have more life than they know what to do with
roll with the punches and cradle your cheek and be grateful that
at least you didn't crack
because electricity and water don't mix and you've killed enough sharks
in your lifetime.
you don't need another funeral on the mind
when you're still watching the procession
of your own -
(or maybe it's just a fantasy
which is
more likely than not,
you were never able to face that talus
at the bottom
or your christmas lights sputtering and
stopping) -
you watch your own funeral and breathe and i
pray
to god for a miracle
because your measured breaths are the saddest thing i've ever seen because i know
you're just breathing by eights

[eight protons eight neutrons eight seconds in and out
atomic number eight processes to stay alive]

the periodic table hung on your wall like a map of the world you
breathe by eights and i pray harder and breathe ragged you were always more measured than me like
you're morse code and i'm an earthquake
you're heart rate and i'm arrhythmia
you're chemistry and i'm alchemy and you disprove me with every breath
you the child of bright mathematics i crumble in your gaze
but still you short-circuit and i stroke your hair and breathe ragged while you sputter
your synapses can't hold all your life so i'll conduct the overflow
ground your talus in my chest and i will take all your flickers for my own.
it might take a while
but you'll feel it
i promise
because it's not so cold with your short-circuits in my chest and i bet it's not so numb
with my pens scratching your arms
you light up and i wonder how you can breathe so steady
with all this smoke
in the air
(i was breathing  ragged already but you said asthma suits me and
i guess you're right because
you were always the one with all the elements memorized while i
struggled to remember that air
could be something other than
painful)
you short-circuit and i stroke your hair and pray
for your numbers to add up
this time
and you sigh and disprove me
again
because i only live in your flickers and sputters and my
ragged breath
and i pray you will flare brighter light up stronger because
when you feel that punch
i can't conduct that impulse.
roll with the punches baby you'll feel it i promise it
just takes a while
breathe by eights keep that heart rate steady
you imagine your funeral procession and sputter
i breathe ragged baby i will take all your misfires
and write odes to your sparks
just be ready for that feeling when it hits.

You can learn a lot
about a butterfly,
by it's cocoon

And you once told me,
that it's okay to take shelter,
and that you would follow me anywhere,
if that's what I wanted.
But that isn't what this is about.

On the topic,
of adolescence,
and maturity
I believe there is little room
for growth,
when things are going well.

Ironic,
that the times
when we want to erase ourselves from the world,
teach us the most
about who we really are.

I used to scribble your name,
and erase it on a page,
over and over
like it would make me forget,
how it felt to feel your hands on my cheek,
but that's not what this is about.

Pushed myself,
to the edge of destruction,
like a test
of how it felt,
to have nothing left.

And in that moment,
I became painfully aware,
that I had everything,
but was too blinded by self-loathing
to see it.

Self-awareness comes
with a lot of pain,
but opens the doors,
to a lot of happiness.
*and that's what this is about

I had a dream about you last night
for the first time in a long time
I walked past you on the street
and my heart began to sink
just as it does every time I see you
but this time was different
because you chased after me
and ran into my arms and embraced me
and we stood there sobbing in the middle
of the ******* street in broad daylight
and you whispered in my ear
"I will never leave you again.
I will always love you."
And I woke up in that instant
thinking for a brief moment
that it wasn't just a dream.
But it was.
You have forgotten about me.
I am a chapter you do not want
to ever reopen.
-

The Boy with the Sunshine Face came back today.
He was never really missing, he just needed a break.
And in the few days he was gone I realized how much I love him.
How much I love his hands on my back
and his laugh in my ears.

God knows his parents were worried
and they don't know I could have told them
where he was staying.
But I missed his face just as much as they did.
And no one should be forced to be somewhere
if it's killing them.
Even if that place is home,
with those who love them.

But now he is back but I still haven't seen him.
Except for last night, in my dream.
He was sitting on a bench by the school,
but he was different. His face didn't
have that smile I have grown so accustomed to loving.
Hiss words didn't have the same ring to them.
And when I kissed his face he didn't kiss mine back.

This is all just some weird front my brain is putting up
because I'm sure he's the same he always has been,
just a little more tired.
Still,
I miss The Boy with the Sunshine Face.

my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall

crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
                        laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
                                hangs

                                          breathless