i am allergic to washing up liquid
and lovers who taste of day old liquor
unfortunately
neither have a warning
‘may cause irritation’
weary desperation
to scrub clean
every thought of us remaining

my hands are sore from rubbing
my eyes are bloodshot too
crying
sharp hot tears of
glistening glass, cutting at my cheek

every shattered word you said
a piercing pool of lies
next time
will be different
raised voices as high as the expectations

sober me from you
i’ll go cold ’til i no longer feel you rushing my system
addictive coffee skinned boy
drunk on the idea of forgetting you
maybe this relationship be a blur like the night before
that's how I would liken it
maybe we'd be happier surviving on the memories alone
drink me down
throw away the bottle

i can only imagine how your head feels from the hangover
well that's how my heart feels
over

lets build tree houses
and blanket dens
forts to be reckoned with
no one will infiltrate our
dreams
beneath these woven armours
dusk to dawn warriors
duelling with the notion of infinity

playful glances
and
everything i never said

my body already knows
way before my mind can read the cues
to connect on a level such as this
is rarer than July snow
and surely just as beautiful

he holds my face
cradling softly to meet his gaze
thumb and forefinger the lightest vice
but
i know these hands could never break me

intimacy is not something to be explained so readily
or easily
it should be
bittersweet raw honesty

Tiny whispers,
soft and subtle.
Bed frames,
a warming cuddle.
Soul pieces,
nose kisses,
cold feet,
one love puddle.

Confrontation,
elaboration,
dark secrets,
silent bracing.
Morning breath,
coffee grounds,
cigarrettes,
and carnal chasing.

Television,
Apple tarts,
Soft eyes,
and blunt smoke.
Crazy nights,
and tired days,
that is what I miss the most..

What to do..
What to do,
This silence of blue hues.
The soundless color intercedes,
and blocks my field of view.

Lonely eyes inverted and blind.
A coating worn so lightly.
Irradiated silence...
It seems to shine so brightly.

Slumbered in solitude, caged in sky.
For months I've been away.
I hear them bellow, a promise of yellow,
yet, regrettably I'll stay.

Submerged and drowning slowly.
Drip by drip inhaled.
Oxygen deprived,
and word wrapped stake impaled.

I'll trip and stumble my way out.
Eventually unleashed.
For now my silenced eyes take lead,
as I slip away from me.

In what world should a mind be defined
by the parameters of others perceptions?
Limiting ones self by fear of abrasion from the populations conceptions.

Never setting true goals, only those that seem to fit into the faded puzzle.
Instead of extruding shapes that can't be confined.
I see wonderful beings, dazed, and imprisoned by bottling themselves, and their ideals because of anothers view.. of point of view,
And common sense.
A common consensus,
about what should effect us.
What to project.
And see.

Where others see fragile attempts,
I see unstructured trials.
Where others see inevitable failure,
I see limitless possibilities.

It's 11:37
and that's
pancake
heaven
when I want
to rise
and follow my eyes
my de-
sire to eat
and eat
and eat
and eat
and eat some
*******
more

It's 11:38,
pancake masticate
where I feel like
I'm starving
carving fake
hunger
pangs
into my
mind and I
eat and I
eat and I
eat and I
eat
and I

It's 11:39
that's pancake time,
that's a near rhyme
I'm writing as to
stop myself
from wanting to
eat and
eat and
eat and
eat
and eat and
eat and

and I

I'm going back to the place where
Poems are born
where I first thought a thought to
write about, worthy of print and
text
worthy of my time I spread so
thinly

I return to the place where
poems are born, in
thought and in
Existence

in a moment's breath, a hope, a fear of
losing, love of
gaining

This is the place where
Poems are born
Between my hand and a piece of
Paper-
persuaded by the small
breaths of time spent
seeing more than I
have time to
Paint or care to
craft

In a moment's shudder of not-knowing, persevering, maybe not believing in praying-
I don't know anything

Except that I am the place where
poems are born

It's 7 a.m. and drizzling
The Willamette Valley's
late winter chill

I am not a runner.
but here I am, starting
the incline

2,064 feet up, up, up,

it's Sunday and
The butte is my church
Celebrating the running god

I am not a runner.
and
my shirt is soaked
with sweat
and I'm only a mile in and my
faith
is in question:
where my mind is reminding me that
maybe I can't do it
and I know that I have flaws

where instead of praying, I'm thinking
****, ****, ****, ****.... ****!

During the ascent to the
Running god,
I'm not a runner.

When I wonder if I'm devout enough
strong enough
dedicated enough and
good enough,
when I'm
constantly tempted
by the allure of the downhill,
the seductive persuasion of the
descent

I am not a runner
and the butte is my
Church.