pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.

pruning fingers from another world of empty reach,  i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous
laughter.

smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon
kiss.

and sweet
disaster.

I left before I could blow it.

Bright light, moonlight, whatever,
it doesn't matter, the setting is irrelevant,
the fact is,
I've noticed you before the grave.

I left before they could know it.

Call me whatever you like, whatever,
it doesn't matter, the semantics are irrelevant,
the fact is,
we made it all up anyways.

My dear, I left poetry to the poets.

when leaving a pretty girl
you must go in phases
it will hurt too much
if you rip away like a band aid

when leaving a pretty girl
you must go carefully
because you don't know
when her bare thighs will
beg your eyes
for another glance
or
one last lustful dance

when leaving a pretty girl
you must go directly
before her eyes convince you
of one more long seductive stare

when leaving a pretty girl
she must know you will return
or
her wet lips will long for
someone elses'

when leaving a pretty girl
you must grab time--
stop the marathon--watch her walk
slowly away,
hoping you don't ever have to leave her again.

There is homework strewn about,
Stray pencils and rampant equations,
And he is next to me with a guitar,
Hair wild,
Fluid mechanics tossed aside for
Metal strings and quivering notes.
Neither makes much sense to me.
I played violin for seven years,
But I never learned to command
Music;
Keys and sharps and flats
Just told me where to put my fingers,
But to him
They tell stories.
They leap and prance and laugh from his hands—
Eyes closed,
He holds them.
This is home for him,
Away from stubborn assignments
And looming futures,
And just when I suspect that he is someplace I can’t follow,
He turns and smiles.

Sometimes I play the strangest games with my head
And get sick with memories
And wish for a vacuum-existence in only present tense,
Because my present tense is so much prettier
Than clingy yesterdays and chancy tomorrows.
My present tense is full of music,
Soaring, brilliant, beautiful music,
And the musician who strums away my relentless anxiety.
It makes no sense to me,
But that doesn’t matter
Because for now,
I’m in a place where moments pass in a time signature,
Strung together by his careful hands
And brought to life by his enamored gaze.

It is in this way that I have come to believe
That everything will be ok after all.

I lie-

Not from a beating heart, bleeding and breaking always
for the cynic in all of us, for the human spirit's relentless wane between birth and death,
but from the bottom of a mind unburdened by feelings of empathy or loss I

hide behind deep mahogany eyes, the ones you whispered
shone through to illuminate my soul which was a dinghy lost at sea, a quiet storm
or the full moon reflected off a placid lake at night.

If I were honest I'd tell you that I only see reflections of myself in others eyes, the world
a pallor shade of something not quite discernible and not quite good; I'd say
the lies I will never convince myself of are the truths you use to fall asleep at night.

You said I was enlightened. You said my mind was beautiful. You said
you wished you could see the world as I do.... The grass is not greener.
The scene from where I'm standing is dim and growing darker.

True love is... and it is truth, and my truth is a world of melancholy grays,
memories of all the things that have ever hurt and a forgiveness in which I hope to claim solace.

My love is: never forgetting that I've been undeserving; rising each morning
in a place devoid of hue or tint only to keep up appearances and expectations;

The beautiful lies I whisper as you drift off to sleep...

The lies I make you believe just to save you from the truth...

To to save you from me.

- because I love you.

I always feel my best with pulsing veins
of Absolut or Johnnie Walker neat,
or devil’s dust to take away my pain,
a thin syringe injecting hell’s deceit.
Though sorrow loses strength with needle sting
and moods arise with belts of liquid heat,
I know the tingling twitch will always bring
electric blood when morning comes to greet.
But still I struggle with the current’s craze,
euphoric numb that always plugs and sways
the battle in-between the nights and days,
the sunset hour with all its shades of grays
where all the choices made are surely wrong-
I wake at dusk and start my morning strong.