You came to me in a dream,
And showed me your fathers will,
And all I could do was hold you and cry,
Until I noticed the angry grunting noises you made.
Then somehow you just wanted me to laugh,
Instead of me making you.
So you tickled and I giggled,
And we rolled round in the floor.
Its sad to me that even in dreams,
You seem to haunt me even more.

In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.

but this cup is altering my mentality...every piece of women is looking fine to me...but in reality...they all look like you...because not any one cares about me, its true...that I'm just another thirsty male...chasing after bodies...but that stereotype I will fail..I want to change her memories...so listen to the memo... I'm changing my M.O....cuz this cup can't save me....and neither can your memories...so starting right now change your point of view...Create a new memo I'm counting on You...

green locker
a new violin
barely fits


grass on knees sun too bright laugh


rush hour
crossing the street
she spills her coffee


discovery of a pond
she killed a frog
that fast

moving day—
children pick
at the curbside

He sold a sweet dream.
A dream so sweet even God would have goosebumps at the mere thought of it.
A dream that the fairest in all the land would be envious.
Our dream where our love would outshine the sun across a thousand galaxies.
A dream where my first name would latch onto his last name causing the heavens to sing above us.
The blissful dream that he sold to me would've been passed down to our generations every Sunday dinner.
That dream, I lived for it. Craved for it.  
Dreaming of his stolen dream that he sold to me.
Our once tangible dream began to collapse around me.
That dream I once I lived for turned into a forgotten nightmare of his doing