If I tell you you are my sun and stars,
it is only because you stole them from my
sky and draped them over your shoulders
like a fur pelt apathetically ripped
from a now naked and ****** bear.
If I say you are my moon and dreams,
it is only because you greedily plucked
it from my eye and strung it up with that
chain around your neck, so that it can
light the vile back alleys of my nightmares.
If I tell you that you are my beating heart,
it is only because you hammered and
twisted until it fit comfortably
around your finger so I wouldn't know
the beating of it without your hand.
If I say you are my errant soul,
it is only because you crushed and
ground until only fine powder remained
and brushed it below your brow so I wouldn't
know it's pull without looking to your eyes.
If I ask why you took my being and vanished,
it is only to try to make you think.
I already know the answer.

Gently
Brush hair
Behind ear.

Reveal
Soft cheek,
Tender neck.

Glances
Growing
Intimate.

Subtle
Gestures
Inviting.

Informed
Of wants,
Desires.

Taken
Within
The moment.

******
Impairs
Shared breathing.

Spent and
Fulfilled
Intertwine.

Today, my eyes are drawn to trees whose
leaves are now scouring their knotted roots,
just as podiatrist's fingers search for corns.
Forbidding skeleton branches glance back with knowing,
and our lives’ meaning it seems
are the lives’ meaning of leaves, growing strong and colorful,
getting this and that from the earth, but
impossible to stay for long.

Today, my fists clench. Waves of anxiety as blowing
leaves are gathering, compounding against my person,
just as pedestrians waiting to cross,
forbidding contact but crowding, shoving the curb.
And our ligaments that fail
are the limiters we feel,
getting thinner and thinner, seeing its
impossible to stay for long.

Today, my thoughts continue to dim while
leaves are loosed and blow in the wind,
just as peddlers flee the scene of the scam.
Forbidding dotage, autumn knocks at our door,
and our livid little cries
are the lights we use to cut the shade that’s
getting thicker and thicker, making it
impossible to stay for long.

paralized, my eyes are wide
searching for the other side
I see them there, I stop and stare
but what's the point? they'll never care
with backs to me, they just can't see
the pain that dwells inside of me
my hands are numb, my tongue is dumb
the rains were gone, but now they come

I never wanted to be your broken heart
I never wanted to be the sound of the door
closing behind you

I thought we were forever
but somehow the devil knows me better
than the back of your hand knows my back pocket stitching
than my fingernails know where your back is itching
than your lips know how wide they can smile just for me

can't you see the way we should have been

Who is to say what a poem may be, a poem is free,
Tearing itself from your box, finding where it needs to be on this day or that,
Finding the eyes that are looking, seeking, scouring for an answer.
It is the answer to the question it presents by existing, what am I?
I am here.
A poem is a matter of life and death, inconsequential as a speck on the ground,
Raising and destroying worlds, empires, men, thoughts,
Ideas.
A poem is the reason to wake, the reason to stay, the reason to feel, the reason to
Love.
It is...
Everything.

Who is to say what a poem may be, a poem is free,
Tearing itself from the little boxes it's forced into, finding it's true meaning elsewhere.
Finding where it needs to be on this day or that.
Finding the eyes that are looking, seeking, scouring for an answer.
It is the answer to the question it presents by existing, what am I?
I am here.
A poem is a matter of life and death, inconsequential as a speck on the ground,
Raising and destroying worlds, empires, men,
Ideas.
A poem is the dirt, the foundation, the walls, the roof, the lamps, the
People.
A poem is the reason to wake, the reason to stay, the reason to feel, the reason to
Love.
It is...
Everything.

because in your laugh there's something more than joy,

because in your smile there's something more than passion,

because in your soul there's something more than grace,

because in my eye there's nothing more than you.

In the night when
the full moon lights
your bed clearly,
you call to me.
Your eyes guide me
close to your ***.
I smell your need
matching my own.
I taste your pulse
as it quickens,
drawing me in
deeper. Deeper
into your soul
and your body.
Convulsing, tight
and uncontrolled.
Primal embrace
fulfills as we
demand pleasure.
Desires sated,
as I take you.

ten for a dollar, twelve on Thursdays,
many more ways to realize they're all
actors brandishing turtle wax not
swords and axes, shields without a dent
but tales are larger than Typhon, ****,
tell me again how scary facing
the kraken was and how you made it
back from Tartarus without even
a finger missing, you didn't, I
know, I didn't notice your *******
gleaming on the way down or up, I
was busy fighting anyway, my
armor gashed and crushed and opening,
showing the spaces where flesh blood and
sinew used to be, my horse died years
ago but it'll take more to slow
me down, cause I found her flag, shining
or not this knight won't let it touch ground.

My feelings for you are hard to describe.
You make me want to destroy all you own.
I should go have some relaxants prescribed
before I snap and make everything known.
I wonder who would renounce you quick
and who would linger, searching for some light.
So many things you’ve done just make me sick
enough to forget my virtues and fight.
I guess you’re lucky I have such control,
and would never forget the oaths I swore.
Even though you fire my rage like pistols
I’ll wait for you to leave for distant shore.
From then on you won’t ever cause itch.
I’ll just let karma be that vengeful *****.

when i was young
i was told that there would come a day
when i would understand

when i would understand
what it meant to love someone more dearly than myself
what it meant to love

i thought i knew
because i saw a few movies and i had my family
i thought i knew everything

but i was a child
and as i grew i learned that i knew few things
other than being a child

it wasn't 'til i saw her
that i started to understand what they had told me
that i started to understand

gradual glances and smiles
conversations about nothing for no reason from nowhere
seeing through eyes not to them

touching hands
touching hands and being happy with existence
taking solace in each others arms

joining lips and thoughts
joining smiles and knowing that the world is imperfect
knowing that we are perfect

you're just a child
but there will come a day when you understand
what it means to love

when i was young
i was told that there would come a day
when i would understand

when i would understand
what it meant to care for someone more dearly than myself
what it meant to love

i thought i knew
because i saw a few movies and i had my family
i thought i knew everything

but i was a child
and as i grew i learned that i knew few things
other than being a child

other than the golden rule
and to always scrub behind my ears diligently
and to not talk to strangers

it wasn't 'til i saw her
that i started to understand what they had told me
gradual glances and smiles

conversations about nothing
searching instead of coming across each other
seeing through eyes not to them

touching fingertips to cheeks
touching hands and being happy with existence
taking solace in each others arms

joining lips and thoughts
joining smiles and knowing that the world is imperfect
knowing that we are perfect

you're just a child
but there will come a day when you understand
what it means to love

When I was young, I was told there would come a day when
      I would understand what it meant to care for someone
            more dearly than myself.

I thought I knew everything because I had seen a few movies
      and I had my family, but I was a child.

I knew little other than the golden rule, and to always wash
      behind my ears, and to not talk to strangers.

It wasn’t ‘til I saw her that I began to understand what they had
      told me.

Gradual glances and grins, conversations about nothing, searching
      instead of coming across each other, seeing through eyes
            not to them.

Caressing cheeks with fingertips, touching hands and being happy
      with existence, taking solace in each other’s arms.

Joining lips and thoughts and smiles, knowing that the world is
      imperfect, and knowing that we are perfect.

You’re just a child, but there will come a day when you understand
      what it means to love.

I’ve always believed in logic more than love,
logic lets you know when you’re a mule.
Using your head first means no one can hurt you.
The trembling clutch of fear falls short,
numbing cold-front warms and mobilizes.
Still, without contemplation I would die for you,
and would you expect less from your knight?
Someday I will die for you,
and you will watch with clapping hands,
applauding my selfless actions,
now still able to applaud others.
After all, you would not heartlessly
cast off your veil.
Even rocks and trees sing the obvious truth,
love shrouds all we know in darkness.

melting away
constantly bubbling
boiling down
concience is fumbling
dripping so fast
mindlessly mumbling
waiting for someone to open the door

losing my sight
cant stop my stumbling
caught in a daze
dizzy from tumbling
all alone now
body is crumbling
no one to help me get up off the floor

In the night when the full
moon lights your bed clearly,
you call to me. Your eyes
guide me close to your warmth.
I smell your need matching my own.
I taste your pulse as it quickens,
drawing me deeper. Deeper
into your soul and your body.
We demand pleasure as primal
embrace fulfills, convulsing tight,
uncontrolled. Our desires are sated
                 as I take you.

Now and then I like to look in the mirror and pretend there's no reflection.
Pretend that there is no existence and no possibility for the imperfection
that haunts that slab of float glass and aluminum daily.
Now and then I like to stand in front of the mirror and close my eyes.
That way I can ignore what is dulling the bright surface and synthesize
an image on my eyelids that doesn't hang so stale.
Now and then I like to draw on my mirror until no space is left but eye holes.
Then I can keep my eyes open but still be disillusioned as to how my soles
have become hopelessly glued to this tile mausoleum.
But most of the time I just turn out the lights.

Now and then I like to look in the mirror and pretend there's no reflection.
Pretend that there is no existence and no possibility
for the imperfection that haunts that slab of float glass and aluminum daily.

        sickly skin, natural scowl
                 cracking lips,
      bloodshot eyes forming tears.


Now and then I like to stand in front of the mirror and close my eyes.
That way I can ignore what is dulling the bright surface
and synthesize an image on my eyelids that doesn't hang so stale.

     shining crown, sword and
               shield, stand
     in triumph on boney field.

Now and then I like to draw on my mirror until no space is left but eye holes.
Then I can keep staring intently and be disillusioned
as to how my soles have become hopelessly glued to this tile mausoleum.

     wings take me higher than
                   feet ever
      could, grazing the clouds.

But most of the time I just turn out the lights.

Now and then I like to look in the mirror and pretend there's no reflection.
Pretend that there is no possibility for the sickly skin
and natural scowl that haunts that slab of float glass and aluminum daily.

Now and then I like to stand in front of the mirror and close my eyes.
That way I can ignore what is dulling the bright surface
and synthesize a shining sword and crown that doesn't hang so stale.

Now and then I like to draw on my mirror until no space is left but eye holes.
Then I can graze the clouds with broad wings and be
disillusioned as to how my soles have become glued to this tile mausoleum.

But most of the time I just turn out the lights.

I never thought you'd be the one to see me clearly in that light.
Now you know the cracks, crevices.
Imperfections.
Ugly.
****...
You know...
It's not so bad!
I promise you'll barely notice!
In the darkness you'll no longer see my nightmarish silhouette.
Unless you can't forget, like them.
You can't unsee.
Go then.
Leave.
Forget.
Not the image.
Just the voice you came to long for.
And the touch you now so callously drive away back to shadow.

I am the salt water on your cheek when you're alone
thinkin' about how strong you used to be for everyone.

I am the torn dollar in your pocket on the floor
wonderin' how you always seemed to work it out before.

I am the mirror looking back into your soul.
You already know my name.

No one told me cloud nine has a boarding fee.

At least the the elevators run easy.

Some red on the pavement is the quickest fix there is.

out
and
about
nothing
nothing
nothing here
nothing there
outside my home is
nothing
nothing
go home
home
inside my home is
nothing
nothing
nothing here
nothing there
all round myself is
nothing

Stained glass snakes turn thoughts into ghouls
while sanity blows the barrel to ****** ******.
Glistening molt forms a lead-lined home
through fissures where brain and bone used to be.
Slithering kaleidoscopes mar face and eyes
but anguish seems friendly in multicolor.

Becoming mad doesn't mean I now have nothing to say.

At my first attempt to speak it strikes. I taste copper and the sting of candied fangs injecting crystallized honey, I can only bite back. It shatters behind its shining eyes and long body falls away while I chew the head, paying no mind to gashes in cheeks and blood filling stomach. I feel my tongue begin to melt and drip down my throat, mixing with blood glass and bile. Death appears to me, stepping out of a pink clown car winding up to throw an unlit birthday cake, I'm not ready, I have so much more to try to say.

I remember I have hands. I remember.

I push my fingertips in below the ribs and open my stomach to shovel the contents out onto the ground. As I do the soil turns black and grass grows into twisted thorn bushes around my body and into my wounds posing me as a grotesque homage to the sadistic. Death sets aside the cake to watch with a smirk but it isn't long before Elvis tapes a "kick me" sign to his back and finally drops dead and sinks into the ground and I feel the thorns grow thicker and longer piercing into and out of my flesh burning and spewing red smoke replacing the air making breath heavy and unforgiving I reach through and pull out my lungs to spare myself but Death is distracted he won't let me leave God missing Teresa in chains Stalin playing Pat-a-Cake with Shirley Temple on fields of infant bones and burnt bacon I try to twist my eyes out next but the snakes hold them fast so I watch

through horrific shades the earth fold in on itself.



*Yes, I remember.

swarming around me they circle like drones
violently ripping the flesh from my bones
screaming their victory in menacing tones
rejoicing the sound of my agonized groans
they quickly devour my organs and skin
but still on their faces a terrible grin
for only the smallest of troubles they'd been
remaining are secrets of deep buried sin

lies my still beating heart
in a box in the drawer of a desk.

Over here
lies her still beating heart
in a jar on the closet shelf.

We'll have them forever
'cause cause no one is better
or able to be more secure.

We'll have them forever
'cause every letter we write
makes the butterflies
dance round inside.

We'll have them forever
'cause love like this doesn't
revisit or wait, you just
grab on and hold.

We'll have them forever
'cause....


No take-backs.

Sometimes I sit down to write,
and realize that it's such a plight.
But I can't stop for tears to leak,
'cause my assignment's due this week.
It isn't easy, that's a fact,
to make lines rhyme with metered tact.
So hopefully my luck runs thick,
'cause sometimes writing make me sick.

Substantial enough to fill,
sweet enough to attract,
available enough to
keep coming back.

I once had a hand-basket filled with red
roses, and gave it as a springtime gift
to my love. She called them beautiful, but
an unvoiced disappointment seemed to reach
out more clearly. I did not understand
what more the basket should have contained, so
I asked her if she liked better yellow
or pink roses. She told me that color
was not the source of discomfort, rather
that I had called her my love when she had
yet to know who I was. I began to
stammer, shocked by her sudden ignorance,
but I didn't have a chance to explain
before a store clerk ran up to us. He
grabbed the roses and called an officer
over because they were not payed for. The
officer grabbed my arm and asked how I
had gotten out again. I inquired
as to what I had gotten out of, but
we were already inside the car. He
mumbled numbers into his radio
and we came to a wide white building that
I seemed to remember from a dream, but
the large blue words over the doorway were
both foreign to me. PSYCHIATRIC WARD.

fair specters whirl through strains of mind
between comfort and sorrow they sing
lyrics better left silent in the depths

when I wake mortal planes expand
dreams drift begrudgingly from sight
fierce sunlight ruptures vexing veil

all things estate of day or night
become confounded by the heart
which seldom senses verity

Autumn leaves exposed nerves
and frost brittled bones.

Toes gasp through clay.
Fatigue threatens grip,
yet flayed arms extend.

Fingers fall from reach.
Sapwoods freeze like blood
beneath blizzard winds.

tumbling down, face of a clown
how could you dream that you wear a crown
you're just a mark, an ember, a spark
soon enough you'll burn out and go dark
don't shield your eyes, the lights are all lies
they're only another thing to despise
so lay yourself down, and slowly you'll drown
just keep up your dreaming of wearing a crown

They were right when they told you
money can't buy love,
but feigned infatuation is
inexpensive and fun.
Give them just one hundred
and they'll **** out your soul.
Don't worry, you won't need it back,
the best rides end up down below.

obsidian black-rock soul
lackluster and cold
loosing shards over backyards
failing to heed mother's plea
"keep to yourself, the children are here"
maybe tomorrow i'll borrow compassion
and fashion a rope out of all i can ration
to hold together 'til calmer weather comes
sneaking from behind the peaks and treetops
and leaves me the **** alone
as if
forget the children
they'll know soon enough the taste of hate
and the twinge of pain that precedes disdain
if only i could care
if only i could share a prayer
if only i could waive despair
anymore
anymore
anymore
obsidian black-rock soul
i’ll keep it to myself cause i can’t lose pieces
anymore
there’s not enough to reshape
anymore
just shards all over backyards
each one a bard that only knows how to sing
the ode to rejection
preach only self hate and the neighbors won’t love you
anymore
you’ll find yourself desperately clinging to
anymore
palms sweatier than when mom
found out i bombed writing class
i thought i couldn't be expressive
anymore
like Bob Ross coping with the loss of his brushes
hushed whispers don’t hit canvas like paint does
anymore
happy trees happy trees just have to get angry
when the sun can’t be created
anymore
maybe life is a portrait that we constantly create
experiences chances taken stain the canvas
in specific ways we’ll see at the end of our days
but we can guess what kind of colors we’re creating
we can’t claim sadness and ignorance
anymore
so the soul must be a palette not a ******* stone
those aren't shards they’re splotches
making everyone’s portraits
a few notches darker
we all splash them back and forth
not even thinking about the mixture
we can’t keep using only black paint
anymore

It is five in the morning.
I’m still awake because
fools have dreams and
I have reality.

There are mice in the attic.
I let them stay because
they’ll keep warm and
I’ll never be alone.

There were holes in my shoes.
I fixed them because
I’ll take faster steps and
the earth is too much to feel.

Time is ageless,
sadly most just can't look past what we're not.

I loved how my great-grandma said "I'm ninety-two years young,"
when all the young ones would fret that she was so near the end.
She spent all of her time so far ahead of her time,
loving what time she had instead of staring down the second hand.

I want to live in a world where counting up is the normative,
where age is the cumulative of positives, not a death march.
We need to lose the mentality of counting down our mortality
while making life a banality, 'cause every day here is a treasure.

When clocks are kept on shelves
instead of burned in our minds,
no time is spent counting down.

It's only spent living.

she saw me see her through countless
classmates running wild Mrs. Robins
sees all of the yard  but the soccer field
corner where the oaks lay thick shadows
clasping hands we ran into hiding my plan
“you show me yours and I’ll smile and scram”
her plan “You show me yours and I’ll scream,
I’m a lady” too trapped in each other’s eyes
we stared until the class bell rang walking back
I stopped her just before the door and kissed
her blushing cheek in the sunlight

delerious, drowning in a sea of self-loathing
smoke clouds my eyes, the fire feuled by broken potential
untouched resources burn and vanish
only ashes remain to taunt me
only the mirror remains to haunt me
only venemous laughter to daunt me
stifle my every thought
is it suprising then that i lie alone
in the filth and darkness of fear
never to rise, never to sleep
always to dream, always to be reminded
of what will never be...

It’s not that I mind being gutted, I just hate the feeling of emptiness, like an already looted treasure chest that no one seems to want at the bottom of the ocean where no one seems to have been, or care about. Who cares about sunken ships when you can swim with the dolphins and watch the sharks and birds fly by like the planes from your dreams that you’ll never forget for fear of losing yourself in the ever expansive passage of time that only ever stops for one minute at midnight when the reaper collects his toll from the old and the sick and the unfortunately unlucky who were only walking home and didn’t even know they were dealing with anything and everything in the world that spins and spins and never stops until everyone pukes and starts to curse the constant revolving of shutting doors and opportunities forever missed and drowning in the petty souls that feel too much like home.

so waves can crash around my feet
and foam can chase away the heat
of all the sands i've tread before
my toes will sink into the shore
i'll see the ocean far and wide
and as i laugh and chase the tide
i'll watch the sun set o're the waves
and find some little shoreside caves
to lay away and try to sleep
cause in my dreams you'll always keep
my hand in yours and my heart deep
within the sands of every beach
for no one else but you to reach

artists of flesh
wielding shades of exertion
splashing on canvas sheets
bright through closed eyes

I'm your thumbprint expressionist
mattress impressionist
bristles for taste buds  make
broad strokes the emphasis

aptly utensil
fills focal to edges
though tipping the easel
conception seems effortless

brilliantly tincture
accentuates fervor
while crescent depressions
raise apogee further

day in
day out
they stare at me
unyielding
unblinking
dress me up in different colors
and change when they get bored
or leave me in the dark
I see them laugh at me
cry
scream
cheer
or just sit with lifeless eyes like I'm retinal morphine
sometimes sleeping in front of me
giving up on my looks
or more unnerving things
fantasizing over what they see in me
they pretend I don't see them back
they just stare more deeply
taking their time
or in a rush
open my eyes then close them then out the door
why don't they know I think
and judge them
or do they care
to them I'm just a television

Love is an illuminating fire.
It lets you feel all the cracks in the water,
hear the shadows dancing around your eyes,
and endures.
Jesus loved us even after Calvary.
Love is a thick veil.
I’ve always believed in logic more than love,
logic lets you know when you’re a mule.
Reasoning makes you strong.
Using your head first means no one can hurt you.
The trembling clutch of fear falls short,
numbing cold-front warms and mobilizes.
Still without contemplation I would die for you,
and would you expect less from The Hill?
Someday I will die for you,
and you will watch with clapping hands.
I believe they will be applauding my selfless
actions because they now can still applaud others.
After all, you would not heartlessly abandon il tuo amante.
Even the rocks and trees sing the obvious truth.
Love shrouds all we know in darkness.

Autumn leaves exposed nerves,
not ready for winter.

Toes gasp through clay,
never long enough yet
flayed arms extend.

Fingers fall from reach,
sapwoods freeze like blood
beneath blizzard winds.

Spring is too late.

thumbs **** back black glocs
heat’s on head’s gone
pull it for the crack rock
heaving thick and heavy haze
white and green all mix with red
ticking tendrils round the numbers
seconds are fast after taking life
over grains of time suicide
untouched potential left so
in the wake of pooling blood

tick tock tick tock and time turns the tables
clocks give more gut rot than one-fifty-one
panic over life’s deadlines disables
the mind from seeing anything but guns
and chaos and filth under fate’s tight spun
web of lies keeping eyes fixed on fables
of flies that cannot overpower fate
though they try but have you really tried to
take flight mister fly or have you simply
seen your friends cry and put away your wings
acceptance is the simplest way to die

Time trudges slowly
slowly
Time lingers
stays close
hangs about like
smoke
smothering
choking
killing as you sit
it's hard to breathe on all the
Time
i guess i'll wait
and suffocate
on all the smokey
Time...

Sometimes I feel the ceiling falling,
but that's just peripherals hauling shadows and crows calling from fallows.
Reality isn't changing, only my perception falling down,
aging and growing wicked angry and spiteful just 'cause I let it,
spitting lines of depression and hostile succession,
holding onto negative lessons,
refuting positive progression at the expense of intense spiritual expansion,
shunning the silver lining,
running too scared for shining sun to brighten the mood,
lighten the load, smooth the road,
crack the code of the looming clouds of the crowded skyline out the small window of the attic,
where I go to feed the addict and think about how my time would be better spent
playing roulette with russians and using automatics,
crack crack,
future's silent.

That's not really me, couldn't be, quietly pondering failures of loathing and perpetual black
clothing hiding scars of bygones instead of healing, sealing the skin like new, forging a
better view, starting to get a clue.

It's time for a change.

Now and then I walk through a graveyard at midnight.
Partly for exercise, but mostly to pick out my plot.

You need to see tombstones after dark to get things right.
The sun doesn't dance over etched letters gracefully
like the moon, and the shadows are too thick.

Maybe there's a shared finality between darkness
and death that makes them fit perfectly together.

Maybe when we close our eyes we're just getting
comfortable with the eternal darkness we'll meet.

All I can do is find where I belong before the end,
walking the aisles where the dead inform the still living.
Where still darkness and spectral light marry.

I will find where I belong for this time of living,

and the rest.

If I seem surprised,
it's because I'm still alive.
My search for eternal sleep
ended with a nap.

You didn't see because I didn't let you,
but you were never one to want to help.
You sent me on my oh so merry way.
Why didn't you know I was that far gone?

Though I don't blame you for damning
me. The river flowed too strong inside,
it was up to me to dam myself. Too
bad I dove into the raging torrent of

Baltic tea, yack and Judas. I have no
need of temporary sleep. I only have
freezing sweats and waking dreams
that make me picture you and know

I need to seek another push and pull
until I'm blind to what you were to me.
If I freeze my insides the river will stop
flowing so violently and for once I may

be able to take a breath and dream
without a bottle and pictures of you.
I'll lie by the bank and smile at how
calm it has become since I threw in the ring.

I don't blame you for damning me, and
I don't blame you for keeping turned.
I only blame me for not daming myself
when I had the chances back then.

Let loose the river; I'll happily swim the rapids
without preserver. There isn't much left to
keep afloat. Not that I need to die this time,
but I can't say I'd resist without you.