Waves -
glide towards the shore so gracefully
only to trip and crash headfirst onto the sand,
much to their embarrassment

Such style
Your clothing speaks - loudly
Serving the function of your voice
Your eyes avoid others, like a game, darting away, while your vocal chords silent

How is one whose clothes speaks so strongly, so shy?

Air under the wings as we rush upwards, peeking out our windows
Molten metal winks and calls for us from below
Calling to be mined…excavated…or is that just our human nature?

White drops on a colored wall
The mark of a distracted painter
blights or beauty marks on the celestial canvas?

floating on a plane of champagne
adrift
longing for those I hold so dear
the best way to cope
the music fills my ears, the drink fills my brain, the couch envelopes my form
unfathomable happiness, joy
close to bursting at the seems

it's amazing that I can still type
so fast the keyboard might catch on fire
how to deal with the sudden separation, the alacrity of the surgeon's deft slice,
friends separated
yet only temporarily, until the surgeon stitches them back together
another year at school

how to deal
the lightbulbs searing images into my eyebulbs

I now inhabit the plane of oblivion, I finally understand

A wonderful flowing mess of wind, hair, and face. The face, swirling away amongst the clouds. Like water, it evaporates into the atmosphere, only to be rained down again upon the world. Beautiful face particles, hydrating the plants and animals and splashing upon the rocks. Face bubbles. But are they small individual particles, each a different color, a different shade of the face? Or are they all the colors of the face swirled into one? Swirl upon swirl. The plants and animals will take in these particles, growing with them, nourished by them, reflecting them in their own visages. Immortal? or inorganic?

The leaves, flittering like birds, birds that have been attached, captured, leashes of fishing line around their neck, allowed to float in the breeze, tasting the freedom. The taste rolls off their tongues, down the back of their throats. It tastes like more. But there is not more to have. Tethered in groups to their branches, swaying, holding the branches up like balloons. They bring such pleasure to those watching them, watching at the zoo of nature. Occasionally, these visitors will throw a crumb, a disturbance in the air, sending a breeze to them, scattering the birds, only to regroup momentarily as they are ****** back by their leashes.

(Yet only the flitteringest of leaves are birds. The needles, poised like popcorn of green starch, stick out from their branches, frozen after their explosion into the air, paralyzed at their first breath.)