One more flower, one more fish
there is a pattern in all of this
yellow eyes, eyes that do not fit
sipping on pink thoughts of
forgiveness
and charm
there is no harm
in clouds and slipping on words to
let them out,
white noise in the back.
Blue that turns to black in
the corners of your eyes
time
that does not know
green
or the hues in-between
showing off parts that are
(sometimes)
better left unseen--
one more fish.
There is a pattern in the dark of
madness
there is a flower that cries with
a few sets of different eyes,
maybe not now or here
but all in due time
                all in due time
                          all in due time
tears do not fall when they swim
in a lovemix of alcohol

Blackfish; still loved black.

We are flowers blooming in 8-bit.
Each pixel concentrated on
exploding into light and color--
so small that no one sees, even if
they're looking for it.

They tell us to close our eyes.
It is not our spectacle to behold.

We close like clams
and open up pearl-less
just to let the water rush in.
We choke on the salt and hope we
swallow our sins.

They teach us to write backwards
so that no one knows our secrets.

We ache for the night but we
do not know why.
The sun shrinks back
when we bloom because it is
terrified of the beauty of becoming.

They tell us being takes brains.
*We say courage.

I AM BOTH PARTS SUN
AND MOON

I CHANGE THE TIDE, I
CARVE OUT GROOVES

IN THE EARTH, I MAKE
PLANTS MOVE

IN THE DIRT, I CHANGE
WAVES INTO WORMS--

I BIRTH AND I DESERT
DESTROY AND CONVERT--

I AM BOTH PARTS SUN
AND MOON

I CHOOSE

Death is a temptation--
it is the midnight train
calling through the window screen
quietly, then all at once,
promising a journey but guaranteeing
no definite end,
its echoes a mere whisper
giving you a second chance
until the next night when it makes
its rounds again.

We are only eyes, watching.

Juxtapose my heart and my soul--
I've never felt so open or exposed--
Spill my guts on the table for
people to **** and certain, gentle
hands to hold.
I am forever unfolding
under everyone's nose.

My heart's on a highway
and when it reaches top speed
it beats through my rib cage
and knocks me off my own feet--
At night
the streetlights illuminate
everything I like to keep unseen.

My soul is a thousand years old.
My soul was just born.
My soul's a freezing tundra, my soul
is lukewarm.
It sits in the pit
of my stomach and is
as still as a storm.

We are only eyes, watching,
waiting to see
if my heart will lean out of
my ribs just to beat
or if my soul will reach out of my body
to leave.

Death stands on the overpass with you
reaching for your hand.
It tells you,
Now is not the time. Here
*is not the place.