I was in the mood for salt,
though I knew you were delicious
I became deaf to your music
though I was once tuned to your frequencies
my nose was clogged like a sickness
which made me immune to your scent
my senses became senseless
and thus I traveled
Looking to wake them up again

my lips are frozen

but you are beautiful

The only way I am able

to express

is to write it in icing

with a single candle in the middle

to represent the birth of the amalgamation

of silly, musical, poetic musings

which float like rain clouds

waiting to be opened again

where a little jet plane keeps flying overhead
writing beautiful things in the sky
like "trust me"
             and "you are what I want"
around and around
never wanting to land

reminder of the cold comfort

smell of the basement

the mystery of shelves and shelves

the times and the heights

and the smoke drifting

up in the distance

which later we breathed into our lungs

as purposeful recognition

endless padding and falling

our feet like pedastools

showcasing unrecognized art

which we donate to the second-hand store

only to buy back later

what I’m hungry for now

will probably eat me

until I reverse and find

the path which lead me

to this story which I told

and found repeating

to the walls

which hold our weary arms

stretch marked from grasping tight

to what we found important

I interpreted the silence

as awaiting, anticipation

I stretched to your vessel

swimming on my expanse

of flowing tears and tongue

in the hopes your boat

would capsize

and sink into me

but you did not fall

in my direction

my compass was wrong

and now I am lost

in my own desperate sea

The leftover scraps of

that meal we shared

so long ago

turns over and over

like a cycle in the dryer

leaving the smell of that rotting sweet

the bone which I buried

and wish to retrieve

I, so willingly,

would spend hours trying to

crack the code

crack the egg

cook it all again

feed me feed me

tie the sinew of

my flesh to your

inspired

on fire

meat and potato recipe

hard to tell if this hunger is a want or a need

Later day,

common place

Pleaded with voices

Of promising saints

Illusion of hope

When clustered pieces break

Listening for truth

When i dont know what to say

The dimly lit doorway

into a place where you only

spend five minutes and five bucks

the place between lost

and I’m willing to lose it all

the highway, a tongue

and this, just a taste bud

the simple reward of sweet

combined with the punishing truth

that this is the last stop before the end

this is where I find

what I’m looking for

entangled,

     engorged,

         sinking deeper still;

how vile,

        this filth,

               of feeling I’d love to ****;

this mixing,

       this swirling,

               dirt of this and that;

the bed which I’ve made,

                for years I have sat.

Bubbling to the surface,

                     this slow steady beat;

drums pounding faster,

                     liquid churning heat;

the outburst,

      the song,

          the explosion,

                    the noise;

the endless expression,

                       timeless attempted poise.

I was protecting a treasure

I was sharing a meal

I was hoping to learn the phases of the moon

each of these snapshots

so distant from that little girl

and yet her image replaced my own

as I allowed their opinions to matter

She radiated a different kind of beauty then

back when her toes got stepped on

she learned to tie her shoes

but now in this light

that knowledge slips away from me

like a sheer scarf, the illusion of comfort

and the treasure is exposed

as I am, raw and real

but feeling like contorted plastic

wrapped around these pictures

of stories I used to tell myself

before she even knew

how to tell fables

Stretched among mirrored dedication

all searching, and here they've found

crossing countless rivers

through and through

endless tunnels of lost stories

dipping in, one at a time,

catching only bites of this taste or that

my palette never satisfied

my plate never empty

wondering if today or tomorrow

will bring the truth

Each stone laid
Separate but together
Layers and layers
Of constructed existence
The rain seeps through
The slippery spaces of divide
Touching every surface
Recognizing its existence
In case they themselves forgot
What it means to suffer
And the division between
The top and the accumulation
Of rainwater on the bottom

Maybe this has nothing to do with you
Perhaps this is a frustration of my own lack of commitment
to my own life
to my own happiness
to my own love
Certainly I know little about you
Uncertainly I am attracted towards you
like a magnet to the center of the earth
it's nature baby I can't help it
Inconceivable I could be wrong
Conceivable that I could be wrong about being wrong
Surely there is an answer
to this endless puzzle of flightless thoughts
which I so passionately present
as it may be, to you

Round and Round

Spinning wheels

Like the tops on top

of counter tops

never end

again and again

and suddenly stop

the circle breaks

left to roam

these pieces make

wholeness taste

so puzzlingly

ornate

I wish my fists would unfurl
like the curls of her hair

Lay my hands down
separate from the rest of me
wrapped in tired vines
which held on too tightly
to dreams which have long died

Despite the wilted pedals  
I still wait for
the open coffin nightly
Dream lie,
play pretend with me, seek and hide

these overgrown weeds
knots of blame to which they are tied
to loosen or to lose
which is the virtuous side

I am able
though its not my type
I call it winning when I
bring the dead back to life

I am wrong to call you home

home on wheels
wheels I can't stop

I was wrong to call her home
her home was lost and I was lost with it

"Don't paint your body"
"Only paper for coloring"
I am not wrong, I am not
I am not wrong, I am not

I will let my hands
catch all the tears
which wash the blood
from my stained body
and use those tears
to paint a new body
a new vessel
which I will call
home

Shadow and play
Peripheral vision is slighting
The tease is messy
But the fall is neat
Give me your thirst
Encased in fragile bones
Spilling over with tension
features which mock
the feather lust

of poise and nerve