The road we are on is a short one
Our two souls will soon grow distant
and cold
But, in this moment
I have never felt so close
and warm

Within black feathers that perch on a pedestal, she
stands on an asphalt floor washed by static cymbals
that weave through bodies bumping clumsily together;
a sheen of she that rises up with eyes of red silver.

Eyes like a halo of stain glass windows over obsidian
with brown bear brows bristling at tees and suits
that slap and grab at the flow of her river of hair
winding over the hills and slopes of her dewy pear.

She sits and taps and drags a chip on her nail,
a red shattered mask of salty and wet sunsets.
The curl and pout of a finger and pointed chin
begets of me a twitch as if to hold her head.

I breathe in a shutter of her honeysuckle mist
that rushes to cover her meaty sweat and spit.
Its sugar tips into my sandy lips and tongue and
begs me to dive into that oasis of Sangria breath.

My hot skin stretches its trembling hairs to caress
her walnut varnished chest that peeks barely
out of her hide-and-go-seek black velvet dress.
Cheeks and belly stuck in a butterfly grip, I gasp
as she turns and beneath peachy lips gives a grin.

You peel back lips and digits, white and pink,
at a familiar green iris on an asphalt street.
But inside your eyes, at the back of the skull,
lie a million brilliant murals, on a canvas wall,
of angry grey clouds on a sun lit grass plain.

Your brown bushy dam quivers with the strain,
then with dawn's light, the grimace breaks.
But between lines on the foreign dirt page,
book worms wiggle in a shifting and strange
pattern of words with a silk syllable twist.

You push through dead wood and slip
in a wool sweater cocoon to tenderly kiss.
But through the gap between your brows
is shared little giggles, without a sound,
and an entire narrative, like sushi, wrapped.

You feel the red ribbon is being stretched
before snapping across your moving chest.
But a beat before, in a torrent of despair,
were screams in a gym with angry tears,
at limbs on the edge of bending at the knee.

You bloom on a branch of the family tree
adding more rings before breaking free.
But in between the ticks on your clock,
ages and phases pass by and time-
stops.

My cotton candy blue eyes squint and
hide from the flow of orange marmalade
that drips off of big and burning Mr. Sun.

Splat! Splat! drums my stubby hands as I
play patty cake with the sticky sticky mud
that pools underneath green skyscrapers.

I like to come here and visit the fuzzy crawlers
and the yellow belly bees, (Don't touch!), and
even the scary green worms. Brother does not...

Brother is orange and wet and hot and sick;
Mr. Sun gives him all the sweet jelly, and
the dust from the coughing metal beasts
is making him ghoulish (or so mommy says).

He pants and he pants like he's finished
a looong race or like he's running away
from Mr. Farmer again, but he picks out
dinner, a tasty, yellow trophy (1st place!).

He looks down and smiles at me as I
make coco-cake to bring to his big party;
his teeth have orange in them too, now.
I wish Mr. Sun dried his eyes like me.

Skeletal sycamore branches stick out
atop crowning heaps of golden saw dust,
protruding portcullis on walls obscuring
a paradise lost in a tilted hourglass.

Trophies of green sea stone
spring tall, out the arid desert dirt,
shimmering in the spotlight and
scattering rays off a polished exterior.

Cages of bone and eyeless skulls
are covered in feathery craftsman,
sculpting leathery carrion meat
into monuments with chisel beaks.

Apollo's wavy bangs dangle down from
hurricanes of dusty satin sheets
infusing the air with a rippling haze,
a curtain shrouding the main play.

Evanescent art adorns the dunes
erupting in bursts of swirling spirals
at the lightest twirl of the wind's
dancing digits on the gritty canvas.

And lost in mirage, icy springs
attract flourishing palm trees
bearing sickly sweet treasures;
a moist fruit in a desert garden.

When at first we met,
there was but thread
tied around our pinky fingers
Loose knots causing us to linger.

Then strands slowly braided.
So when we thought our love had faded,
there was a rope around our waists,
Anchoring us from drifting away.

Now every day we forge anew,
a link in the chain between me and you
secured by a lock wound our wrists
Stretching between cells of loneliness

One day, there will be a ribbon of the finest silk
tied in a bow wound our hearts.
Across millions of miles it may be taut
but never, never ripped apart

I sit, I ponder, I wait.
My brain burbles with ramblings unceasingly and
bursting out in a flash of original thought
is the lightning and thunder
that breathes the primordial soup to life.

ARISE! great and small creatures
Clawing up from the depths of consciousness
Creatures of imagination dwelling in the soup of soul
POP out and bubble to the surface
stepping pioneer steps
Out into the world of the dead
to make the living
and arrest the minds of man as
I sit, I ponder, I wait.

We dance, two silhouettes under a laundromat
that inch and creep closer like mice, black blips
on a blizzard earth thick with moonlight that lean
and dip, dodging icicles to touch cold fingertips.

Her knuckles in a thin wool sweater, she slips
into the hose of my big overcoat as I brush
snow dust from the nest of her chestnut hair;
wet tennis shoes kiss my slick leather boots.

I stand too close to the sun. The warmth blows
the snow asunder, and sets fire to my lungs; as
my fingers begin to stray; pools of cocoa, lined
in eyeliner laid too thick, draw my face to hers.

Automobiles and meaty mid-afternoon meals,
red bricks and evergreens, trains and frostbite,
skyscrapers and knee scrapes, all leave me and
dissolve in amber bubbles as I lick her liquor lips.

look into my eyes
look into my eyes
and see that bright white
see it glow in your sight
see-

too deep
it's ocean blue frozen
into ice of Neptune

rivers of pummeled glass
dust mountain peaks and lead
down to a ravine of Lapis Lazuli

search its hidden depths
search deep within your chest
search-

deeper still
it's black water
blind men sunk in a cave

tears and blood
leak from shadows paved
to a floor of stone, sticking cold

run from their reaching grasp
run from their snapping jaws
run-

deepest of all
it's white noise
snow on television screens

a tiny spark of
dreams and secret things
from a naked boy, fearful of the night

see that shining light
see that glittering light
see that fading light

as you
stare out my open eyes.

My eyelids refuse to kiss, wide,
they retreat far into dirt and sky.

The bottom lid is too occupied
with the layers of black fudge
frosted below both my eyes.

The top cap, too green to budge,
starts a secret affair with the lady
wearing a fur scarf up on my ridge.

They ***** with needles of hair
to make their once-kin bleed red,
but the only veins that appear

are on the black and blue gem
swaddled in my glossy white quilt,
cracks of lava in its wet soft nest.

My eyelids refuse to kiss.
They fight like street lights built
over the glow of neon signs.

My eyelids refuse to kiss,
but my lashes grow lush.

When the sun rises again,
an eclipse covers them
with a final wink, a touch.

Not but dust,
lies beneath my fingertips.
Each touch braille on a sand dune,
whispering messages of hell.

Not but dust,
erupts from my cracked lips.
Each cough black ash from old bellows,
the remains of young fire.

Not but dust,
enters my quivering nostrils.
Each sniff the perfume of a great king,
in an empty tomb.

Not but dust,
fills my sunken sockets.
Each shape crumbled flecks from an old painting,
a memory fading to a colorless landscape.

Not but dust,
trickles from my ears.
Each sound sand tapping against hourglass,
my final moments slipping by.

I was walking home staring
At the crowd before me, headphones blaring
Passed a white dome stair case
There I saw some protesters
******* about sexuality, the poor and race
They all were white faces
Straight faced liars
Jacking each other off
Go home at 3 when they’re tired
Wired in their brains to think everyone’s discriminating
Women hating and tearing
The country to pieces
But I’m tired of hypocrisy and political movements
that fizzle out before anyone important starts moving.

People leaving jobs and homes
to join the growing
mob screaming in the streets
like piles of leaves
before the street cleaner comes
to sweep them off their feet.

They're grabbing signs and posts
and roaming with provoking slogans
forming chaotic masses
walking with sticks up their *****
following Twitter feeds, Snapchat and hashtags
looking for a reason to blow their tops
tired of being soft
trying to **** each other off.

I mean what would you call it
when thousands of people are stroking their ego
and blowing their load of **** in your face
like they have something profound to say
when they really just don't have the *****
to go all the way and do something great.

"If you don't agree with us
you must be hating us
trying to suppress us
you discriminating racist."
Just because I don't agree
with the way you're rampaging
about unclear desired change,
doesn't mean me and Satan are on the same page.

Do you think Martin Luther King
went screaming in the streets
with misplaced anger and a vague ideology?
No, he preached freedom in churches
gave speeches in public places to all races
with a plan and clear demands.
And managed to start a movement grand
while here you are starting a media fad
of angry disruptive rants.

You fools are using your hate
to hammer away
at people who can't bring change.
Instead of placing it like a fine tool
at the faults of the human race.

If you're going to stand in the streets
screaming at me
and whipping up a psychotic frenzy,
then at least go all the way.
don't stop after a few days

Get together and have a discussion
let your hearts sync
forming one percussive beat
of a worthy goal.
The kind that matters
that arrests men's souls.

The six-turned horns with yellow eyes
shivers in the crispy Olympus air
as a wave of clasping hands
claw at his wet blooded hair.

A man of the pebbles and mud,
a crook that grazed the land.
He grazed sixty years, but then,

anchored a fair folk on the red sea,
babes in the arms of the slopes below.
They were green and white, with smiles
and ears that savored his wispy white hair.

But a harsh winter came that
uncovered the black, they
dug it out of the caves; and so,
Gaia took their warm green away.

The people fought and spit as they
stole more slick from shadowed pits.
Friction sparking fires to burn their ire.
and the Ire spewed fire back at Him.

Now, the Horns stands betwixt their heat and the pit
shedding salt over their fall, not his, and
with a bleep tosses his cloven hooves over.
to leave them their green, to drown in black..

Between my fingers, I grasp a rose
with petals of diamond and leaves of emerald.
Fragile as glass and strong as stone,
Its beauty stands alone.

I hold it tightly and my fingers bleed,
dotting the ground with ruby seeds.
Perhaps they'll sprout and begin life anew
but they will be imperfect and crude,
Compared to the perfection that is in my hand
A diamond in the rough
A speck of stardust among a billion grains of sand.

On every horizon, just beyond sight,
Lay a storm as black as night.
From it arises a beat, a screech, a wail, a cry,
Of lives torn,
Trust betrayed,
Chaos reborn,
A price to be paid.


The thunder heads pound out the marching beat,
Crashes resound with every step of their giant feet.
Grey-faced soldiers follow one-by-one,
Infinite ranks blotting out the sun.
Their musket shots ring out loud,
Streaks of light arching across the clouds.
And rain drops fall like cannon *****,
Tearing through every roof and wall.


Over every valley and hill this maelstrom churns,
Laying waste to all in its path,
Bringing naught but pain, desolation and death.
From every direction it comes,
North, South, East, and West,
The four horsemen ride,
Slowly tightening the noose around my neck.


I watch the horizon.
...not a cloud in the sky
But I know it’s there.
I can hear the battle cries...

Lights like fireflies trapped in cans, hang
from frays of woolen string on a ceiling
bent from cracked planks into the shape
of a mushroom’s cap, an umbrella boat.

Underneath the molded oak sits the oars, sunk
half in the sand; a tattered cloak wraps a back
warped from the wet algae of the sea into the
shape of a green tortoise shell, an umbrella boat.

A chest on his chest, and a crown on his crown
protects his head and lays just ahead of the
waterline that creeps down the rotten ceiling
to a curled spine stuck to gold, an umbrella boat.