the grass is coarse beneath us
but your hand is smooth in mine.
the summer humidity
has run its fingers through your hair
and the makeup that you didn't need
is smeared beneath your eyes
but you're still beautiful.
we don't speak any words
but the rising and falling of your chest
says everything we need to know.
we look to the inky black canvas
of the night sky
pricked by tiny pinholes of light
that are actually far larger
than we could ever comprehend.
the fireflies enact a light show
as a maestro cicada plays his concerto
and this summer setting seems perfect
but nowhere near as perfect as you.

Exploring what sits at the heart
of the abstract acidic junkyard I've got.
Hallucinating gases produce a wild story
that starts off walking
in search of a new wrinkle.

You think you're angry inside?

half-speed heart-murmur salvation
knows how to have a micro-attack
on a super duper level.

you don't see skies or trees

I am so used to the liquid electronic desert,
the second the doors open
I get higher when i get inside.

Like quicksand around my feet
procrastination keeps me.
I put things off
that I find off-putting;
It puts me in rough situations.

The kind of situations
that a man needs to grow.
How can you be upset with life
when your given all you need?
Nobody knows, it just sort of happens.
Everyone finds something
to complain about,
no matter how easy life is.
When the real wolves come
to overthrow us from our comfort
we are already too caught up
in ourselves.
We panic
We sink
We forget to remain
Calm.
And like being trapped in quicksand,
we are swallowed whole.

A nice stone fireplace.
Worn in chairs.
Tables covered in scratches,
stories people have forgotten.
Kind faces.
Delicious drinks.
I wish I lived in Caribou.
It's the kind of place
that helps me find peace
in the middle of the storm.
The kind of place
that helps me forget 
about the small things.

The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.

Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.

He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.

Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.

The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.

I don't remember, any more,
The exact shape of your hands
As I held them in mine,
Caressed them,
Memorized the length of your fingers,
The depth of your calluses.

I don't remember, any more,
Exactly your height, how much
Taller than me
You were, where
My head rested on your chest
When you held me tightly close.

I don't remember, any more,
Your scent, when we lay together
Creating our own
Magic rhythm,
Matching our heartbeats as we
Touched the sky, together.

I don't remember, any more,
The sound of your voice, calling
My name as though
It were a song
Within itself, a precious treasure
You valued with all your being.

And I don't remember, any more,
The color of your eyes, the shape
Of your lips,
Only...
How your eyes crinkled at the corners
And your laugh, as you told me,

"I love you."