my entire life has
been a slow steady breath in
i'm ready to sing

I need a new vocabulary
these words aren't enough anymore
it's holding an ocean
in my cupped hands

The syllables erupt botanically
until the air is a garden
so I prune cautiously
three red roses
to signify primly
every forest in the world

I'm not a romantic.
I'm an architect feverishly pacing
with visions of the first cathedral
I'm a scientist riddled mad
with want of fathoming space
I'm a skeptic who is poisoned
by the mystery of death

the technology is antiquated
love outdates  itself
I love you is no longer enough
but it's all I ever say

It's every word I have ever said.

my body is built with glass
so that light can filter in
my bones are made of sticks
my whole heart is a forest
of monsters

it's dark
I've lost the path

my soul is the moon
it guides and blinds me
like a moth
lonely for stars

I cannot contain my light
I cannot reach shore

I sing aloud with empty lungs
the song of everyone I've ever met
the forest echoes the howl
I've forgotten

I've forgotten what my voice sounds like

when will the morning come?
my lantern isn't bright enough anymore.

At the end of my name
follow three letters
right now they spell
"mop".

folks say it ain't the
way it used to be
jobs- like there's even such a thing as
"beneath me".

I'm a clever little phoenix
I have my flight plan
not an android, nor
academia didn't make me
Galatea

I can wait and remember
I can serve you an ice cream
without forfeiting intellect in
a flurry of sugar cones

I pick my battles gracefully
so I remember what I was taught.

Curl up.
Pay rent.
Rebirth,

then-  

pounce.

Monday in the park we
purchased Messiaen chirps about
nothing and watched a red kite
lying still on the grass

it was a puppet-show to my past.

After such long last breath
-caught in throat-
full moon eyes
waiting for puppet master to leap from the guise
I saw instead an onion child
tugging his layers uncomfortably
(like a Christmas turtleneck)
pulling threads
counting minutes

you're a tiresome genius,
my pretty pianist.

Half decade to pine
over songs you
half professed to be mine
full dance card, empty wine.

The daisies said yes, you know
but I've far greener grass in my garden to sow.

The thimble is tossed. I love you... not
Go on, cryptic darling,

sing softly your loss.

i was afraid of them
until i found her in a flower
and found she was the flower
buzzing little soul
colour shifter
dream
      c a t c h e r

autumn nights were cautious
the songs we sung
were the songs of those stung

in the winter we built
a secret warm glen
and she taught me to dance
   (in the way that bees do)
so that snow wouldn't weigh down my wings

sometimes she flies unseen
but she always comes home
her heart beats in my chest
and mine, her honeycomb

we don't belong here
   (i think we came from the sky?)

we belong to each other
     my flower bee and i

"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
*******. The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.

Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-

Mine?

Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.

Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"

"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."

I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside

I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-

Beauty is the greatest lie

Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise

imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake

but have never even opened their eyes.