you call them miracles
weightless - they rest in the back of your heart
soothed in the red infrastructure
safe from any conundrum of your conscious


my hands have been searching
ever since yours ran away
out of commission does its job
of salting landscapes of forgotten palms


empty sheets are irrelevant when empty dreams
carry you from one regret to the next
promising the endless night long overdue
requested at a perfect summer


days are a lot like excuses
they drift like strangers through towns
though excuses should not be confused with miracles
those come straight from the heart

there were 9 times
9 times I was let down
9 times I expected more
and 9 times disappointed

9 shirts were laid out
and none of them picked
9 mirrors had cracks in them
not one could stay
9 books full of untapped potential
9 stories in search of readers

I counted to 9 and shut my eyes
hoping to dive right into a dream
and 9 minutes later I was still awake

there were 9 mistakes I made
and 9 times I felt sorry for each one
I counted to 9 on my fingers
and couldn't make it to the 10th

there were 9 syllables in the last thing
you said to me
I'm sorry but I can't be with you

stars align in proper formality
shadows disappear like tired ghosts
exercise lifts the journey into purpose
while planets pretend to watch from a far

search for solace can lead one
down empty bottles or through
broken bones
for the last beat of a heart

an outworn disposition
from conversations of yesterday
with faces losing familiarity
past the compromise of civil grounding
nothing but ashes in a private memory

a world of nighttime
unsure if it wants to be beautiful
or terrifying
it can't offer much
if you continue to walk away

promises of forever
and perfection which knows no end
these things fly off the tongue so easily
escaping before they're given any worth

steps between spaces are as silent
as the town trying to find its sleep
whispers from hushed restaurants evaporate
as they're visually removed from focus

my desire for rest is not unlike
the town's
giving me less light than I deserve
as I search for a parked car
to take me home

kids walking along Bloomfield avenue
look for liquor stores that don't card
fueled by the ecstasy of mischievous youth

if I drive away
will I miss the golden opportunity
sitting in place waiting for kinetic release?

if all I want is to drive into your arms
without reservation
am I selfish
or just lonesome?

East Side Mags closes in
the crescendo of finality
an array of dark stores
lifeless – unattractive at night

the flicker of New York activity
a compass on the horizon for
any wandering traveler

it's a whole world over there
a perfect backdrop for night drives

undeveloped frustration
taints the addicting fragrance
captured in the charm of soft lips
ready to spit out strong words
to govern unstable conversation
prepared to forget innocent affection
organically crafted in days waiting to be years

your arms which bordered my body
leave me at unease in an unfamiliar bed
with nothing but filth underneath fingertips
throwing anger at stale chemistry
which slips further into history

your beauty reduced to a scream
edging out the last of us
into a shatter across the floor
pricking naked skin that moves

children on Friday
throw care out of two-story windows
their weekend is a small miracle
filled with music from old stereos

the boys send kisses to the girls
and congregate for prospects of play
the street is its own world
glistening with magic from the sky

dreary winter has quieted to sleep
flowers can find their perfect bloom
doors permanently closed for so long
creak open to invite warm air

children dance with bare feet
and tell stories fueled by quick laughter
their freedom is a wondrous privilege
for futures are a thousand years away

the hiss of dusk
claps like thunder to dethrone time
threatens with the dread of Monday
but the children don’t worry
their kingdom is a moment forever

cries carry their echoes like scared children
into the deepest pockets of the abyss
waiting for merciless thunder to stop
bombing the earth

where the soil of kinetic frustration
realizes the roots were of pure harmony
a tenderly crafted perfection - brought to life
in an air of laughter
found in back door summers
and ice cold beers

a constructed fantasy - populated
by playful youth on their thrones of rebellion
raising the fire from its safe place
to burst the night sky into crackling bliss
free from chains of pressured change
promising a potential future
stripped of good times
leaving naked anxiety

scars to color perspective
uncertain if this sky is blue or black

I

the alarm clock refuses to set itself
it tells me this at 4:05 in the morning


II

I’ve started combing my hair
trying to maintain some sense of maturity
after I shaved my beard I
was reminded of my boyish look


III

the mirror decides to show
the reverse of a reflection
it shows me everything I’m not


IV

I have a dream where you’re the star
and I’m the narrator
we exist in the same world
but never interact


V

I look at my college degree like it’s an old photograph
from a time period I never lived in
I’m still seeking employment


VI

I turn 25 and unwrap gifts
looking for plans and hopes
and whether or not they’re relevant


VII

sometimes I wonder what you’re doing
who you’re with and how
much happiness you have


VIII

I disappoint myself
rejecting expectation
and ignoring opportunity
shaped in the consistency of
social resonance
populated by unpredicatable girls
who may charm you away
or ***** the scabs you’re dreading to discover


IX

abandoned ditches come with welcome signs
and I can’t help but feel a little afraid
that my vision is cut in half


X

two halves of a poem
form together
feel the uneven edges out
and agree on acceptance


XI

hands unfold
and position themselves for
placement
for some tangible thing
to appear

lingering smoke from the last breath of conversation
clouds the final goodbye in the throes of departure
kissing the dark tears from a pregnant sky
drowning the serenity in an unholy baptism

it’s the last laugh, and the last regret
interrupting the youthful energy
of simple children who
throw their arms in apathy
unaware of tomorrow’s pathetic smile

there’s secrets hidden deep in the dark
in some heaven you locked yourself in
where every mirror is masking emotion
detached from steadfast friendship

it can’t be communicated with vocabulary
or confirmed with silent resolution
it simply slips away like an old calender
pages never meant to be seen again