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Peek through the bushes
Look through the vines
What lies there in the clearing?
Bleached white and draped in green strands
A mouse climbs over
Worms squirm under
A fox pup comes along and sniffs around
Nudging a white bowl in curiosity
But look! now the bleached object moves
A few pale digits twitch
The bowl rolls over and its plain to see
This is no jumble of old dry sticks
This is not a set of hoops and a ball
It's a sleeping skellington
No, don't worry; it's not dead
It's a living skellington, Daddy!
4/2/13
I want to write
Without letters
I want to kiss you
Without lips
I want to choose
without thinking
I want you
Without me
Bio
Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants
I don't really know what to write anymore
I've got bits and bobs and puzzling pieces of poems
Floating through my mind
But I can't put them to paper
I know what to say and how and why
But cannot
I could write about love and life,
But I'm tired of that
I can write about butterflies and doodles of
Flying cheesy donuts or a land whale
But nope. That's too boring for me for now
Lethargy and apathy are taking over for now
So my inspiration tree is a little wilted.
So here's to another lack-of-inspiration poem
And another ode to boredom.
I wish for one thing only: wings
Why wings, you ask?
Well, they've so much to offer
I wish for wings to fly
To soar through the clouds
To dance circles around you
To fly closer to you
I wish for wings to embrace
To shelter myself when I'm lonely
To hold you closer when we hug
To shield our kisses from prying eyes
I wish for wings to love
To caress your cheeks with wingtips
To tickle friends with feather touches
To brush snow and leaves from your grave
I wish for wings to be strong
To help me flee those who hurt
To comfort myself with their presence
To remind people that angels do exist
Not really for any one person other than myself. It's kind of for everyone; those I love romantically and platonically and familially(?) For those here and those gone.
The cannibal is thirsty
for a flesh martini
Dabs of salt here and there
On tongue and ocean groin
The ******* is hungry
To be the tender olive
Eaten very slowly
Lick the ****** pleasures
Of each other's
knife
kiss
Maternal affections
pouring open by God's rage
They are
shelter
Ignition
To each other's
demons
wonderfully delicious
as frosting or
whipped
cream
They are rare fruit, indeed
What are the odds of them finding each other?
Just goes to show, my lonely lovers
There's someone for everyone
You too
Will find
Your soul mate
Someday
just as the blood
Will eventually
Drip
from
the cannibal's
smiling
mouth
Oh my love,
you are my
yummy chicken bone
dipped in
your
sauce
"Ahhhhh...." he says
"This must be love."
When I was born I asked the doctor, how he thought he did?
He recalled,
"Exquisite, it was a perfect delivery."
I rebutted,
"Then why am I still attached to the umbilical chord?"
He snipped me away from the tangling sheathe preventing me from exploration.
I leapt off the crinkling hospital bed paper and onto the goose-bump extracting tile floor.
Playfully bobbing my head as I walked into the world whilst giving the blonde doe-eyed nurse a crumpled note arranging what time I would pick her up for
dinner that night.
--Nurses enjoy being taken care of too.

When I was in preschool my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up.
I told her, "I want to feel the love of a woman who makes me happy everyday and loves me for being me."
She under cut my desired fate, "That's not a something you can work for."
I whispered in her ear, "I know you have never felt love from another person."
She began to cry.
I told her, "That tears are just water for her soul to grow."
She got married later that spring after the rain had stopped,
--Her soul grew enough to show.

When I was seven years old a neighborhood bully stole my bicycle.
I cried for four minutes.
I was angry for about an hour.
Instead of telling him that my dad could beat up his dad
I began to wear my helmet everywhere I went.
I shouted to the other boys in my class,
"I had an invisible superb-deathly speedy-extraordinary-intergalactic- bike."
Two weeks later that same bully gave me my bike back.
As he relentlessly rubbed his knuckles into the top part of my scalp I thought nothing, but that this is the reason why my Grandpa went bald.
Then he muttered through his wheezing breaths of anger,
"My invisible bicycle was much faster than anything your ***** daddy could have bought you."
--Dad's, they love hypothetical fighting.

When I was eleven years old two airplanes hit two buildings in New York City.
I did not understand.
I asked my teacher, "Why would God make evil people?"
Through her tears she explained to me, "Some people are just born evil."
I shouted under my breath, "People are not born evil...
implementing ideas in the sponge of a youth's mind is what is morally corrupt and evil!"

--Corruption is the first cause of terrorism.

When I was fifteen years old I had my first real serious girlfriend.
I did not understand, again.
I exasperated to my father over drinking our first father-son beer,
"How do I know when I love a woman?"
He nostalgically took a drag of his menthol cigarette and as the smoke made it's way through his nose like fog in a canyon he said to me,
"Whenever you look into her eyes and know that there is nothing you wouldn't do for her, that is love."
Before he could reach down and crack another pilsner I told him,
"Dad I look a little lower than her eyes and that is where... everything I would do to her."
--Hormones are a *****.

When I was twenty-one years old my mom told me I couldn't come back home after I graduated college.
I begged her to give me time. I will make it, I promise.
I shouted in the driveway with all my belongings she had neatly placed for me to pack into my car, "How do I know when I am ready to be on my own?"
She didn't have to say anything for there was a brown envelope on top of my neatly folded clothes; that mysterious folding method all mom's know but I
could never seem to figure out,
"Son, you won't know. You won't know until you are poor, hungry, cold and exhausted everyday from trying to make something of your life. The character
you will build will help you later in life when you have a family of your own. I promise. I am not a tyrant, I care too much to see you widdle away here with me
in obscurity and waste all the dreams I know you have. I love you my baby."

--Mom's, even though they don't cut the umbilical chord...they cut the umbilical chord.
you slept on the inside of the bed
I on the outside
you were cooler
I was calmer
and we talked of everything
but of course - mostly - nothing
you left early in the morning
I slept while you readied

you eskimo kissed my nose
to say you were leaving
and leaving me there
and before my smile reached both ears
you reached the door and were gone
but still there in my head
heading toward my heart
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