some days the weight of the world
sends us tumbling from our apartment windows
too fast for regrets to catch us
but the concrete will cradle you and
rock your fluttering heart to sleep

the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.

i have but a simple request:
               rid yourself of your lungs
               and fill up the empty spaces
               with used coffee filters,
               crinkled wrapping paper, and
               forlorn hope. do
cast aside
               the shroud of indecision?, for
               that winding sheet will only
               hold you down between
               your shoulderblades, like
               framed butterflies pinned on paper
               with needles of stone and salt.

stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.

we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
               there are staves of music
               written in the lining of your mouth
               and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.

oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you

The mind of a man
Is not always smart
In the mind of society

The feelings of a man
Must always be tough
In the mind of society

The body of a man
Must be muscular and chiseled
In the mind of society

The mind of society
Is always verbose with standards
In the mind of a man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

Golden sunsets glow
Slanting through your windows, cold
Lighting dust into lazy snow
Drifting, drifting slow
The blaze first to go
Then fiery Amber toes
Paint red skies bold
Then before the story is told
The colour away is blown
And melts into summer nights.

I could be anyone I want
The craigslist killer,
The boy scout that helps you cross the street
I could be a hundred million things
Do you know who I am?
Have you heard of me?
The way I lie and contort myself to be
Exactly what you want?
Have you heard of the good that I do?
Or did you just hear the bad?
Does it shine brighter than my strive to be
Accepted and given a chance?
I want to paint galaxy's with my words
And touch souls with my feelings
Have you considered yourselves not actually better than me?
Have you tried?
Have you reached out?
To really know me, to bust open the skull
To learn me.
What have you done?