This one wild eyed child,
with the breath like
gin,
those cedar branches between teeth,
those handfuls of eyes,
those broken whispers and spit on my eyelashes,
a kiss between a day broken like cigarettes in the package.

Could you make love to a series of words,
or a painting on the wall,
or maybe a laugh between ***** sheets where our skulls bounce off each other,
could you love a dead smile?

You carry the kind of ashy witchcraft
I read about in cut-out passages
of out-of-date New Orleans newspapers
discarded in alley-cat trashcans
bums use to light fires that further an
unwarranted air of rebellion.

I don't understand you.
But every ounce of me
wants to fill you in
like a crosswords puzzle
with words that aren't the ones they're
looking for
but still find a way of fitting all the same.

And my brain bleeds memories
I've made up
that stain my shirt like unwashed sweat
and make me feel *****
for getting myself so hot in the first place.

Karma's got me by the neck.

The more i chase after my own happiness,
the more you hurt,
the more i hurt.


So i will stop wanting things. Have no expectations.


                      I guess im just not entitled to happiness of my own.


I'll swallow it one more time,

Then maybe god will see my plight.
Then maybe next time round


                               It'll be my turn.        


  
                                              ­                                     to be happy.

You may not recognize me
     'til you hear the music playing,
  capriccio of a mellifluous heart
      dancing upon destiny's moons,
  speechless neath euphonical clouds'
              yearning euphoric poetry