and you’ll see the moon,

reflecting off the light of the sun.

you’ll see the blushing sunset,

dancing around the skirt of the night canvas.

you’ll see the pinpricks of stars,

dead for years yet shining just for us.

you’ll see the one spot in the sky,

where the artist never finished painting

the galaxy around the planets.

the milky way runs patterns across your eyes,

and dyes your shadow a silvery glow.

we’re all looking up at the sky,

searching.

for what, we don’t know.

don’t worry,

I’m looking too.

the brain and mind are not the same thing.

a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.

it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.

the mind has no such manuals.

it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.

it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.

it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.

the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;

hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.

away from people who haven’t quite learned,

that the brain and mind are not the same thing.

I am paradoxical;
an oxymoronic anomaly.

all my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.

I am paradoxical;
an absurd abnormality.

it’s a chaotic peace,
loud with it’s bated breath
and bittersweet ring.

I am paradoxical;
an irregular oddity.

my counterparts are contradictory,
and I change to chance
the possibility
that opposites attract.

and we’re all just paradoxed;
argumentative attractions.

there’s no stopping at the end,
when the sun is low
in the soft red sky.

where my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.