…and if again he is the flavoring,
why perchance not allow my waltz
to frolic circles round your
Throughout all the whimsy
and laughing silent kisses
(bubbled pinked ribboned fluff)
there sequestered sits
MY ultimate sincerity severity.
Quit scoffing whilst you’ve lost your savor
his Now is my favorite flavor.
[allow] me to lick the Newness:
off your face,
away from the yapping white noise in the distance,
out of the infant smile you shed.
Lets dance the color of welded [souls]
all you who fracture under [the heavy mass
of] my emerging grin, cast the [humanity]
from your leaden chins
lets [radiate beyond our stiff] elderly shells-
stretch to the most intricate composition
of every genre of pebble [person]
Don’t stop there!
[pass] pockets of serendipity to the greyest nimbus,
the slightest twitch of grass,
the [breath] of soil.
why must we comfort Zones?
I will ****** your plush practiced demeanor
to [nurse] your pallid glimmers
of certified [You].
something plush weeping
into a pillowed hug
of empty oxygen
though I try the Brave Game,
(and usually win)
flakes of me run
off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
looking for your mellow sting.
But I definitely feel
a s t r e t c h i n g
the Doctors say my heart
should probably be
a slight tremor
( echoes )
through every joint
of my toy frame,
like a thousand elfin voices talking
about your favorite foods,
and the color of your hugs.
muscles of my throat
send their regards to your
2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
when I sit [flat] inside Today.
someone resized my skin
though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
(the elusive Good deserves you most)
I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.
you monolith the shade of my footsteps
(let’s fluctuate our emotion
so that when
you ***** in puddles
you can feel my dry comforter skin
will repeat your dimples
when I’ve misplaced my humor)
you makeshift my silly condolences
that all is everything alright
the wiser awk
pass their sympathy
we can shrug jumpy
you harmonize my musings
without proper schooling
with bona fide
so that I may be your noone
when you are my anyone.
When I walk on
the treadmill roads
by my selfish feet
****** thy hands into my soul
reverse my decisions
inverse my positions
your light into mine eyes
that blinded I may see
with humbled mottled clarity
thy boundless charity
transcend my omissions
And mend my revisions
protective father smile.
make every step
I feebly take
worth your matchless while
rehearse my transgressions
transverse my digressions
the dance you wield
with tangled strings
shall far exceed
my selfish dreams
so tear, dear father
Art, thou my duty?
perhaps thou Art my necessity-
my respite from numbed negligent
when I stray from your gaze, thou Art my scolding mother
retracting my footprints
reeling in my philosophies and
signing them with your brutish mark.
you let me see nothing,
without first whispering what should be captured.
But I am the gasping fish.
truth be told-
you only come when beckoned
I haunt you like a mosquito to a sleeper.
I need you to pound my head with energy
fill my stupor with crazed innovation
force my hand upon crayons, pencil, marker
to capture your ambiguous sighs.
I am thy vessel-
you Art my soul.
coagulate my soul
flush my brute
out of this landscape
send my gentle salute
to the soft fauna,
the slippery ones
who divulged their grace
to my philistine vision
and Terminate the scent
of those who wrench
the sweet tang of Spring
from this downy mossed asylum
(and plas-stick it into
for decrepit wrinkled
“Lacquer Rouge” lips
ferment the scape
forever into my
as I regress
to my most sickly
I may still be
Dear Best friend.
I cried today.
Not because you left me dancing in
Not because I receive one paragraph
of sparse-nothing information
from you a week.
I cried because
you are the kind of best friend
who wafts beside me
(like that time we led each other with our eyes
closed through the
crowded theme park-full of nonchalant
in all my sly, lively moments
and exerts more merry influence upon my wanderings
than all the other
7 billions souls on this [The Foolish Blue Globe]
what color you drip when you laugh?
how many languages do you tempest?
when you cry, who spills deeper
you, or the rain?
You abridge me into a litany of mysterious elations.
I asphyxiate inside your rapid joy
and you drive me past my fondest entropy.
I fawn at your luscious humor.
outside the realm of plastic men
into the hive of the eloquent-
will o’ the wisp denizens
who flaunts shafts of pickled delight
like isolated pilgrim adventure.
Allow me to dive into the furrows of your didactic faith
and there consume me raw.
when I say
I speak not from the rooftops
or the pulpit.
(I feel like a small
that has gnawed through your
wooden visage and delved into
red layer of your giant
The Master of your creation gave me
and through them I can see
[ you ]
as you could become.
(as You are truly)
I could tear your very trained
off your luminescent tie dye soul
and strike you thunderously
with coursing hope
that transcribes my spirit
onto the finest parchment paper
and original Home
then instill the clearest oxygen
for your gasping
gift you with the smallest tokens
of supreme still
I am the dog scratching at the door.
it’s raining and I hate the cold
so as I whine and shuffle my feet
do me a favor:
Don’t shut me out.
YOU’RE NOT MY PROJECT. IT’S NOT MY JOB.
I tiptoed inside your eyes and found
a simpler tune, a softer sound
a curve in your straight-backed regime
to hate the world, to dim your gleam
YOU’RE NOT MY PROJECT. IT’S NOT MY JOB.
I pickaxed deftly your hushed façade,
to break your cool, your soul to ****,
I was rewarded, you melted thick
I bit your nails down to the quick
YOU’RE NOT MY PROJECT. IT’S NOT MY JOB.
I chanted slyly my Godspeed rhyme,
(behind the veil of passing time)
your soul rose like a fish to fly
your mind ignored and passed it by
YOU’RE NOT MY PROJECT. IT’S NOT MY JOB.
I’ve pricked your thoughts sharp, now I’ll wait
(I can’t force you to take the bait)
your life will dance if you but heed
but I will melt if you’ve no need.
Don’t just take a walk in my shoes. Become my feet.
I caught that blush
you sly mountainous expanse.
He flirted with you-
breathing light his
nimbus whimsy on your cheeks and now
you sit frosted
defiled and iced
your rouge smile
left a stain on my mind
your craggy laughter
spreads adventure on my soul.
The light cannot leave you alone
he battles with the clouds
to illuminate your colorful features.
his envious gaze leaves
your autumn blotched cheeks
radiant with reflection
of his affection
Oh mountain of mine,
you stick out in this landscape as
the only maiden worth pursuing-
the strongest mark upon the horizon
and I too,
am in love with you.
Stick with me like I stick with
(or maybe upon the broad rock
we can shift silly laughs
from me to you to the people.)
crack my heart like lightening does
so absolved of its tact
so deranged in its pla yfu lne ss.
and that you may sing always-
blow bubbles with me in this
terribly grown up business.
sneeze merrily the sounds of
lets bless them together
treading on coals
of childish curiosity
and such that maybe
you and I will traipse with
subtle spirit companions
who cherish moisture of the air,
colored sparkles in the street.
Our feet nod their noble acquiescence
as we tread the Everywhere
in tandem chirping
Blinking colored pixalfree
everything inside- Happy
out of focus
But believe me
(when I say)
You do not see
as well as I do,
Move over incompetence-
That’s my seat.
We’ll have tea. The herbal variety.
And talk about my listless absence
over rosehips and peppermint.
It has been a long road trip
on awkward interstates,
since I have eaten poetry.
It tastes tangy on my tongue-
tahini and tap water,
like salad dressing gone south.
I went south, since last we spoke.
I cry still for the colors,
the blues and greens that burned my eyes
and transfigured my palette.
The mountains spoke foreign languages
but blessed me with new ears to hear,
but I did not record their tales.
I sit now trying to catch a shimmer of their dialect
but I am full of empty English.
I repent now,
of my caustic neglect,
to the nymphs of creative order—
and humbly bow myself to the sword of
[i like the way you face me when you talk to me]
[you even blink your eyes with just the right timing]
What’s your name?
[i’ll bet you have a good orthodontist cause i’d say your teeth are better than most]
[you must have good hygiene or a good mother cause that shirt is starched]
[how do you hold yourself so confidently? did you take public speaking courses?]
[i feel calmer in your presence than anyone else in the room]
So there I saw-
and then I curled
into my fetal ball of envy
my happiness had coagulated
like a refrozen popsicle
at the back of the freezer.
even if you melted
you would still smell
on my breath
I swear it even
exploits my muscles
my tendons grimace
like massive internal
when my mind
at my juvenile grievances,
the follies laugh their
and ignore my pleas
no-it takes more than that.
my every yellow Laureling
becomes a necessity
to coax, soften my
from whence I have locked it.
I call you through Audible
the auspicious click- whirrrrrr
(sometimes wind tells me
you don't listen)
the empty response
of car upholstery
(But you answer through Poets)
the punctuated; nonsense
of- everything Important
slammed stuck. stretched-
like pebbles plopping
from your bluest you
I love you like the first lemon I tasted
you stormed into my life
(like the sour in my face.)
you changed the expressions I choose to wear too…
but instead of making the grimace-squeeze face of
I tend to be too busy smiling.
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory.
What if therefore.
You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery
For after yellow.
Beside a lake.
Through crimson humility.
I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale
And if replace me.
You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of
lick the remainder of
my teary bleary humanity-
kiss the stress off trembling shins
all very important documents
professing to know
just exactly the right way to suffer
you rise and fall like a symphony
(My silk screen diaphanous breeze)
I swim through your History,
(the coral reef of vivid crazy textured nonsense love)
saturated by the light refracted
into your marine metropolis
I coalesce into your voice
(melted butter creamed currant pastry)
and unfurl evenly.
(your solvent arms
propel my luck to fill every container
of your buoyant sounds)
you dance on my sidewalks like
Charlie Brown’s gang
(bobbing caricatured spreading smiley joke random)
you take my crinkling brow
and soften its creases
like newly pugged clay
Be my crutch,
my original thought,
(reshaping nuance unforeseen renew reold aspiration),
my false laugh
(when I get hurt and love you too much to show it)
my recorded comfort
weaving precious merriment around my every gesture
Oh thou, partaker of peace
with whom I swim in wondrous myriads of blessings-
we pass them,
like handfuls of smooth hard rice
beneath a mist of translucent courage
oh that I could stay
betwixt this hollow of hope
forever waxing and waning
with every tender breath you steal
but go now.
with my hands at your back-
I will slap you if you stay
for I will be within your feather heavy heart
like a twist inside a pocket watch
we count time together.
clasp me in the jar of your maternity
***** it tight
so that when I sing
it echoes into all the chambers of your heart
reign me in like an
expensive decorative fish
in a shark tank
fly me to the door
slip me out of it
then cry for the good work
you have accomplished.
encase the colors of your
into the flowers of your
for a mother’s greatest
feeds us better than the
When I am bittering myself
of my own painting
Don’t stop yourself.
pick up a paintbrush.
forever catch me
grasp me as your jubilant burden
neglect your sticky fear
for it is evermore
as close as the horizon
Waltz me into the circle of your thought
chocolate dip me into the raspberry mint of your voice
chastise me into the grip of your giving arms
so that I may forever melon your picnic.
You stepped inside a pinhole
and found yourself in water
you and your floatings, prayers, gloatings
dripped listlessly through
others’ problems, funerals, bad jokes-
every persons puddle music
in a torrent of watery grievance
Welcome to [Big City, Foreigner Country]—Traveler.
This ocean smells awfully polluted
and not just the grey in the air
but the blood in the streets from the
and the way that the people stare.
but tread lightly, and don’t drown,
you fishes from other lands,
your gills open-- and you will find that you
swim as the culture demands.
bless you, watery wanderers,
with your blessings and cursings
for this ocean of raging attitudes
is made human by all of your fears.
for as a summer day was had
before the rain
between the heat
she shackled, sliding
her sweetest gaze
between the roof
beyond the haze
and as she shimmered
between her breaths
above the children
the blackness gasped a purple spot
and mothers danced
the raining shot
because beyond the people stand
the hands, the face
the mother land
beyond the selfish
above the cruel
between the violence
about the soul
spreading quaking laughs
the brittle branches
the wind it loves
her silly games
he plays along
makes swirly rains
they all continue
as they should
beneath the will
inside the could
because as all the
weather folks know
she does not
obey them so
she leaps, she sings
her made up song
just how she feels
she’s never wrong
with her sweetest gaze
between the roof
beyond the haze
mauve colored seats with the classic
have never looked good.
They don’t when I sit in them,
they didn’t when you sat in them.
but you did sit in them.
so they are my favorite part of this room.
or maybe I like best the awkward colored walls
made from ribbed tan brick.
I like them because you hated them too.
now that I am
scanning this cumbersome auditorium
which must have been counting seconds
for thirty years at least
as the most fantastic element
because it clumsily timed your Poli Sci lectures
I laugh across the ages to you
we comment on the drab melancholy
with weary satisfaction.
As I warm the same mauve seats
where you once took identical notes.
reverberate through my selfish desires
oh Named One.
bathe me in the excruciating love
thou hast blatantly ****** to the
pawn my faults away
forever into spider traps
and replace them with whiffs
of your most diminutive grace
challenge my obstinate circles
with hushed psalms of beckon
that my nascent view may
broaden to allow your vividness
for my cells gasp for thy luster
as much as the nearest plant’s.
when I crane my neck
at an angle worthy of your scrutiny
may I also comprehend
the necessity of your doting severity
e we stand
rocking in each other’s sweat
and frothy anticipation
we sell our individuality
a seething mass of vivid
bathing the bleachers with
our future residing on the chasm
that is the
you simple mesh
of pure fake goodness
fluctuating pools of
why won’t you smile at your youth?
you stride in the fairyland
of woods and bigbadwolves
and by you I stride.
despite wrongly flowered turns
and yellowbrick folly
I am your Supervisor
the masked will flaunt
overpracticed laughs of evil
and the Haggard Ones witch brew lizards legs
--stick-- you with sharp pins of Discomfort Curse
but I will --stick-- with you
The dangerous road loves lost princes.
but ever at the end
Happily Ever After,
will climb inside
your nestled foolish cocoon
to spin your gold and
design your perfect maidens.
you simple mesh
of pure fake goodness
fluctuating pools of
Why won’t you smile at your youth?
Between the streets of skepticism strong,
if when you lace the light of joy and fail,
if violent gestures thick command the throng,
and solemn lips proclaim their faith went stale
then Halt! and know that I believe: the hands
that heal though we have pierced them in our sin,
the generations numbered as the sands,
the golden book, and seeds of faith within
My voice which beckons from a distance space
and begs you to sustain your love through grace.
I reach across the blue to you,
surging my tendons, fingertips to glance a few more
inches, feet, miles
my strength emanating from
the small simple sips
I take from the draught of your eloquence.
I wisp across the seconds to you,
minutes, hours, days,
tendrils of curling hope
straining like willowed boughs
in a mouthful of destiny.
It exhausts my veins to venture so,
and I would feign and let you go
with courage flat and valor slow
if I did not whole heartedly know
that you were reaching too.
I missed your squish-
your fingers staining my favorite picture books.
I need your oily claws
your head-mashing whiff
the way you smile with toothy indifference
you climb over
all walls I orchestrate
and sit turgid
with bright Grandiose on my blanched skin.
my life is your palette,
you have moved in like a sloppy roommate
and your haphazard possessions drape the cabinets,
I love it.
you inhabit every vacancy
-a bulky mass of
no matter how much I mix your
ever so bright.
please… don’t leave me open canvased.
splotch to me left and right
taint any negative space
barge in without
whip your camel hair bristles
all over my pages.
color me, pigment!
sweep me off my*
because every mood
we absorb one another’s irises
spins me in such poignant fragrance
as if to say
“my now is yes
between your fingers”
He is my least favorite vegetable.
No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.
when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.
I fry him, striving to remove the
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility
I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism
I must instead attempt
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
has such a brackish mark
upon your passive visage-
it transfigures boldly, tempestuously
any average glance flung facetiously in my direction.
Dearest Rogue Element,
You invigorate all other
Like the slip of a blunt knife,
you surge open your soul, compelling
any audacious personality to bleed through the wound of your
You betroth yourself to
the Fascinating, the Creative,
and like the cascade of clearest french horn lamentation-
you stir my
emotions with a mournful compassionate caress.
And that’s the difference.
The mellow mahogany of my eyes
provides the most loving background for Light to
reflect her dancing valiance with reverent adoration.
stride as the
Commanding and eternally vexing, (captivating) me
with your gaudy juxtaposition
of angry intensity
and poignant serenity.
so that’s how I became
(once broken forever leaking goo stuck melted crusty sap)
they prodded my
serene ivory enclosure
(with their brash talking silly laughter shush insignificant)
spoke over my soft
whine of naivety
(the older they are the more stern brow thick mind forget)
don’t mess with my
(deep inside they cough awkward feel distant shake sift)
I will stand up
for my youth.
(I am metal strong no cracks building foundation know)
as you incubate-digress
in your membrane of
is a small price to pay for euphoria.
he gasped at the brink of
mouth agape and strained
like pulled taffy
embraced him entirely
consumed like a long lost relative
Sometimes we don’t climb.
It was no longer clear
whether he climbed more than
the earth climbed him: she clambered inside,
ascending further into his psyche
happiness bleeds into our
like water running the
pigment lines of
He cried out
shedding the skin of his palms
upturned and reaching
like a caustic supplication
he fell hard.
slap mat against the grain
like a thrice worn shirt
She calls him weeping-
a contrite lover
and he will return
to her brutality
nursed with humility-
intoxicated with exhilaration.
I have recently become very involved with rock climbing. I have asked myself, why do I feel so passionate about this when it hurts so much and is so frustrating? This poem is an exploration of that juxtaposition.
God killed Summer.
But caught her mid-Fall,
And laid her in a goldenrod dress.
We held our breath-and wept
To see her more lovely in sleep:
Green eyes closed brown,
God cried hardest-
Saturated her bedside in rain.
We drank deep draughts of her vibrant complexion
Brandishing onto our gaze
Her rosy palms and frosting fingers.
God blanketed Summer.
With a sheet of fine lace,
And lowered her into the earth.
We trudged home in the snow.
Her warmth had left us cold,
But we carried God's promise burning our ears:
"Whatever entity I take,
With tenfold will I bring.
Our Summer's hardy, just you wait-
And from her grave she'll Spring!"
They talk phrases that have no meaning to them
saturated in ignorance
like frogs in formaldehyde.
Let’s cut them open
(In a formal procedural sanitary way)
and see what causes them
so much confusion
and so much conviction
that they are Right
and those with working brain matter are not.
Kiss me, soft, as I am… passing.
kiss me while my lips are burning, while I yet believe in romance
with soft blush face,
Lift me like a child on stilts, elevated above the feeble dreams of adults
with tendons taught,
playing my hair like seaweed
bless me with your consciousness,
with your most pensive furrowed brows
with your aspirations
bless me with your future.
Feed me at my bedside—but not just tepid broth.
Feed me the window view
when my eyes forget to flash,
Feed me the sky
from the IV,
the smell of chlorine
So that it may be you and the moon
that sing my last lullaby.
like grey, dish-has-been-washed-liquid
mellow at the sh-sh of night
but my mouth
like distracted toddler eyes
popping your name into the yes of time
to sample your existence
This sounds like a conspiracy theory.
She said bitterly, stoically
I think we are talking about being brainwashed
Think of the children! The little ones caught in this mush of politics!
If we stay here and do nothing, the world will soon collapse! You know that dear?
This is a problem too wretched to handle! We should probably move to Canada.
Why can’t we do anything about this dilemma?! What is to be done?
I am a man of few words-
I am a woman of far too many.
I sit thinking, rocking, musing on the edge of the bed- perusing the colors of your memory blinking fractionally in my remote consciousness. How is it that when I probe tighter, more thoroughly into your visage, trying to define the shape of your face from the faces of my dreams you tend to hide more than ever behind the noise of my thoughts? But the instant I clip into happiness you are there laughing and hugging and spreading lightness on my plaster cast life. I suppose I need to forget this sticky fear of forgetting you. You shape my clay life, pressing deftly upon my mind and habits like a waffle iron crisping batter. I must not forget that I am too deeply stuck in love with you to ever bleed you from my mind.
Look at you all-
off dancing in another hemisphere,
sewing pockets of sunflower
every footstep you take
Between the three of you,
you wrap my heart in a neat little
Birthday present maybe-
crisp and prim like a pudding.
though there are seconds of minutes of days
where seeds of your image, droplets of your countenance
shatter my inhale or obstruct my vision-momentarily
I feel as if it were I that planted you
in the funny other hemisphere-
surrounded you with soily sunny happiness
*just to watch you grow
I live in a world
full of people with your name
but not the way you articulate the consonants
or the way your eyes dare
contradict your intricate intonation.
I live in a world
full of people who think they can have your name
without having your soul.
Sometimes I mistake you for euphoria,
for as you drip pigment into the colors
of my irises, they can no longer focus
for shaking iridescent mirth.