there are too many lights in this sky,
too concerned with the black emptiness that surrounds,

that they forget their soft glimmers,
the ones that stroke desolate grasses of backyards behind homes that shiver with the turn of a doorknob, and cry with the closing of that window in the upstairs bedroom

you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer

your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15

your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate

your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony

your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights  & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite

you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season,  and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.

Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.

I'd rather get drunk from the poison ink water running down your cheeks,
          than push you down, feet first, into the ground beneath me, into that parallel eternity

Your pupils buzz like declining carnival lights, & your hands move like reluctance in high heels

Your phrases stumble out, knocking into that syntactical lamp post the keen call "tongue-tied".

Your shoe laces would make great ribbon pasta, with a touch of blood red sauce and olive oil tears.

Your cloudy curls hum with the activity of that misguided swarm the doctors call "agitated overthinking" .

Your arms hang long, draped with the golden moss of pubescence, weighed by the leaves & twigs that scrape the surface of logical revelation like harsh chalk.

Your voice, the uneven droplets from the faucet, wets the crevices of one's invisible compassion.

Your are the Princess of the Absurd, the red-coat orphan on a suburban, spray-painted Saturn.

Hippie #73,
she walks like the leopard in the savana of San Francisco, the blonde peacock on the jungle throne

Hippie #73,
a product but a voice, with wings and some uncut claws

Hippie #73,
A nymph and a marcher, with a paintbrush and a posterboard

Hippie #73,
originality is wavy like the rainbow sky, but the lights are bright in the raindrop's shadow

let my seeds push through the crevices of entrenched doubts

let my stems poke at the cobwebs of rusted assumptions

let my thorns sting back at the chill of raw honesties

let my petals conceal me like the kisses of ambiguous flattery

let my branches bridge me across the creek of negelcted assurances

& let my roots hold me down, in the soil of what is certain

I express my thoughts as vividly
as the silver patches above

My sentences crawl out of me
like the uncertain nature reserve recluse

My gestures stumble outward
and trip over furrowed brows from afar

I approach you in a jagged curve
as I attempt to dodge the comically apparent

My declarations bump into a brick wall
that is graffitied with your hazy implications

My assurance is an frozen valley pond
upon which you glide across, yet to slip or fall

I attempt to make the earnest connection
only to discover the grey clouds in the distance

Oh dear oh **** oh ****
But where is that umbrella?

Can we eat ramen in the dumpster
and discuss avoided exertions,
and obtained stimulations?

Can we eat pizza in the sewer,
and notice lackings of duty
and seized thrills?

Can we eat cereal in the warehouse,
and observe overlooked regrets,
and earnest hedonisim?

Can we eat sushi in the shed,
and plant seeds of disregard,
and ignorant gaiety?

Can we dine in the wasteland, the field, or the valley,
and watch pink clouds glide by,
and envy their destination?

You are the rose with fake petals
You are the diamonds worth less than lipsticks

You are the Converse with untied laces
You are the Svedka mixed with tears

You are the jacket that was thrifted,
You are the star with a light switch

You are the angel with foam wings,
You are the unseen thorn in the garden

You are the cigarette smoke that drifts
You are the needles in the dear sewing kit

You are the duchess of comfortable silence
You are the countess of disclusion

You are the sweetest pill in the box,
but the most bitter drink in the afternoon

Wine-soaked sundays
what a time to lounge


Wine-soaked sundays,
full of cheese and pearls


Wine-soaked sundays,
what an hour to cackle!

Wine-soaked sundays,
when the obligations melt

Wine-soaked sundays,
when we are softly raw


Wine-soaked sundays,
when ladies conduct "leisure"

Wine soaked sundays,
where the smiles conceal nothing

Contradictions covered in skin
Nonsense pulsing with blood

explosions concealed with smiles
screams concealed with whispers

Lies hidden by truths
Desires bruised by structure

Cautions concealed by ease
Doubts shadowed by silence

Wants hidden with compromise
Ineffeciences closed behind a door

Distance blurred by intimacy
Trust warped by anxieties

Pain stifled by Foundation
Love restrained by disillusionment

On the brink of regret,
I tred in realization.

On the cliff of euphoria,
I gaze over dissatisfaction.

In the heart of angst,
I inhale the malice.

By the bedside of contentment,
I stir in reservation.

On the stool of accomplishment,
I kneel before expectation.

In the cloud of resentment,
I discern self-assurance.

In the balloon of gaiety,
I fly above grief.

&  with  the sight of you,
I feel the joy of me.