A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

Among the desolate crowd we felt that welling of times long held back. The cloud had come. Release, pouring down. Over. Washing away what all had been left discarded. Disinterested. Pouring down the cliffs of a world we can't fully come to terms with while the rest was nothing more than grease stains sliding streetwise to cracks, corners, stagnant pools that left them short of those drains put in place to siphon them off to somewhere.
    Somewhere.
    New?
    Lost?
    Forgotten?
    Why. Why would they work so hard to take all of it away just to let it sit. Lie (lay, I mean, but **** it) in the streets causing those perfect souls passing by to deal with the failed drainage systems put in place. They promised, again, to fix the streets, why did they do all that work to have people feel their failings in the posting rain as their boots soaked through.
    What was the thought?
    Money? Gold? Ambivalence or hatred could be candidates if there weren't such a stranglehold on the decision makers. The streets, department or otherwise, knew how to address it, why don't they?
     And the drains clear. With them, concern. The puddles, disappeared. All that is left is the penumbra of promise, silhouettes of stagnant process producing not but the petrichor reminisced for. But it's always a memory left, maybe tomorrow problem. Matters not when the gatherers gather once 'gain. The sun still shines it's oppressive rays and once again these cloudy eyes start to well.

i tried so hard
to send you winter
in a letter

i went outside
collected snowflakes
and foolishly pressed them
into the pages
the ink ran
and my thoughts
melted away

i wanted to save winter

capture it in a bottle
and hide it
between my lungs
so my every breath
would be cold
and my voice
would taste like snow

i thought
maybe
if i could take
that bluish-grey sky
and shove it between
my ribs
and swallow
every
dead
leaf
you would see frost coated grass
and think of me

... and
i could give you
winter

f o r e v e r

ten days into january
but my soul already
ache for the
softness and warmth of
december; to be cradled
again in his arms

In the deep corners of 3am,
I find her.

when I was 16 I thought love was a dark corner
I thought she was someone else,
and her words dripped down the walls
until they were all I heard,
all I breathed in through my nostrils
lips pursed
trying to keep my secrets from pouring out.
but I let them (too soon)
and I limped about the house for days
like I was embarrassed to have stubbed my toe

she said it had gone on too far (of course it ******* had)
but when you believe your darkness is alive in someone else’s words
you feel almost nauseated
the taste of bile stuck to your tongue the morning after being sick
why did we like it?

she came to see me sing
and 12 others sat in silence, thinking but not knowing
the thickness of the air
are they breathing it as deeply as we are?
can they taste what was said between us?
I used her words
she said they belonged to someone else
I wish they had.