from the mind it flows
traveling through my veins
down my bones.
every part of me rages
for comfort and ignorance.
I erupt,
my emotions drain
oh I wish
I wish I cared less.

Your eyes are white
And so are mine
Reflecting light down the shopping isle
The colors are dim but we are too
Trekking this store as skeletons do
Intoxicated by the fumes you smoke
Forced down my lungs I hardly hoped
Today would be better
We'd find something to buy
But we put our cart back and pretend we tried

I believe
That writers are
So brave
Because each time
They start writing
Blotting ink onto
Their paper
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
They rip their heart out
Of their chest
And show the world
What it's made of.

Keep it safe
in familiar territory.
Nothing non sequitur.
Nothing out of place.
Don't go sailing off into outer space.
Stick to topics that relate.
(Ignore how everything is connected to everything else -
not everyone thinks that way.)

Nothing out of left field.
You've got to save some face.
There's a reputation (somewhere, somehow) to maintain.
Be polite, pleasant, and plain.
Leave the madness in your brain.
Hide your heart;
keep it tucked away,
and above all else,
don't go digging up those corpses from their grave.

"Wonderful weather we're having.
Isn't it a lovely day?"

There's so much more to life.
That can't be all there is to say . . .

She is a tress of hair out of place,
combed in slow sweeps from my forehead.
I thought her an enigma to perchance unravel
by the press of well-paired lips
or by a mind besotted with moon glow
and Grenache wine;
one wicked with wisdom.

Saccharine words stirred into woody coffee,
I, Whitman, imagine her
the chill of Robert Frost
clung like sugar grains to my Leaves of Grass.

Almandine eyes of the nine Mousai
revved up by unbridled inventiveness…
I twinge too much to hold it inside,
she triumphs beyond the rim of her vessel,
so our ache and exultation
steal past the musing sentinel of apprehension;
and leap from once dormant imagination
into spirit shadows and splendid motifs.

She is a stranger to all,
but to those whom she whispers as lover.
We, two strangers of sun and moon,
curl nubile into night
to take our nuptials at dawn.

One hundred million miles and
one earth between us;
now bound as one, we pull the tides
into an unexpected tempest in my heart;
a tender act of indiscretion
undoing a tame, near tepid, bearing.

Thus muse and artist
feast upon the provender of providence
and all delectable in between them.

He asked me why
I never looked him in the eyes
And I looked at the ceiling
and said i didn't know
He once asked me
what color his eyes were
And for the life of me
I wanted to forget
that his eyes were the color
of the purest blue ocean
just before a storm and scattered
with crystal shards like sea shells
Because the second I looked
up at him
The air was stolen
right out of my chest cavity
His eyes engulfed my soul and drowned it out
until I forgot where I was
His eyes could melt fire and freeze ice but he doesn't have
a destructive bone in his body
His eyes are the sky
right before dawn
a blue so electric
it sends shivers down my spine
So wasted with wonder
and dappled with specks of sarcasm
I've been told drowning
Is the most tragic way to die
Though maybe it's where you drown that makes it a tragedy
because I think
drowning in his eyes
would be the most
beautiful death