this poem is about Me
Me me me
Me with a gun on my tongue
Me and my g.o.o.o.o.o.o.lden bullets
aimed at ... ?
Me, blowing bubbles in my mind
not caring what the plan is
Me, imperfect
Unperfect me

me as Myself incarnate
Renaissanced
rising from a shell
Thoughts
creeping up the bone
Me me me
my meat
Meeting at the gap
me alone

Acceptance
sitting on the ridge of my nose
so far removed
from rejection
Who is the warmth of the past?
It's me
The mist of the unknown
Me
Spilling forgiveness like liquor
bridging
across the ridges

here's me
Unhinged - again
Unabridged
Spilt
not spent

Splitting my way through
the covers
falling through space
what dimension?
Spilling back
into myself
Introspect.

The asking
is not where it's at
Back to the wall
waiting

It lights up
but
   shove it
           d
           o
           w
           n

They can live in your back pocket

It's hollow here
fishbowl-like
Out there
They're sharp
even when they're soft

*painfully vivid
like alien forms

I wished time and time again

-to be weightless
- not need

nor

-want

To always

-have my hands free

-and open

Never
-bent to hold

I wished,
but...wishes are specks of dust.
Specks of the past
they fly past my window
Sometimes lingering in my hair:

Hello, old friends
-lucky I have long hair

----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------

                                    ­                          ~ Surely you comprehend the
                                                             ­     pleasure of flight
                                                          ­    Meaning is a weak soluble
                                                         ­          Pursue the carnal.
                                                             Channel it right ~

don't turn around
i got your back
in my sockets
      hands in pockets
sick with emotion

   motion sickness

got me driving circles around you

they say it's fluid
i say it's more like fire
flames licking over
the female form
if kitchen tiles
can swallow up a woman
now would be the time

Safe from the cold
- but barely so,
some old icicles still latch on
too sharp to shed,
will it end?
Can it end?
Stumbling your way
dead end to dead end
Growing colder
with the fragments that won't
melt

The mechanical ticking
of the aural pulse,
pervading the silence like a
pendulum clock

- drumming away the hours
- drumming away the years

making you desperate for irregular change
but
nothing irregular can ever survive;
things, it seems, change so quickly, so violently,
but not a beat out of time;
and Time

- it will not budge
- it will not die.