I smile,
             but I don’t mean it
I cry,
             but you don’t see it
if time
             is what’s at stake
our lives
             are slowly fleeting
         –
you–
swat your hands through the web of our plans

you and I are not connected
         we are,
              strangers again
–
so what do you believe
are you still innocent to think–
that your lock is still genuine
that it'll work with my key?

JACK’S LOST:
turn left, then right, go straight, turn left. directions i gave to friends my age, the days I played with no regrets.
and yet, mistakes abreast of time, land a man standing in a cage.
my life the dam holding back success commanding happiness–i’m really low on faith, that the bench I call my bed has a door I can escape.
streetlights come on again, reminding me the harshest winds will be my nightly cape.
           DANGER NO LONGER A WARNING BUT REALITY:
flashes, head a swivel, too much my eyes can’t form a picture. pretty pictures … what I hope for as I sip my liquor.
God, my body pulled by strings, hardly can i repeat simple words to get me down the street:
                   turn left, then right, go straight, turn left.
i laugh as another car swerves around me, my eyes are closed, blind to my surroundings.
it hits my nose– the smell of gasoline, and I ponder pictures of factories, loud noises and fat machines.
                              PRETTY PICTURES! –I yell.
cross the avenue, my attitude is changing, cuz’– i toss my bottle down, cracking it blows, i blow in laughter.
God already knows this is my final chapter–nothing matters.
i open my eyes, what do i see?
cars pull up behind me, one sliding to the tip of my achilles.
woulda made a nice killing, but i guess they prefer not
         but then the car behind runs the line, my brain hits the chalk–
                                     M-M-M-MAYA?:
                                 friends my age, the days I played with no regrets
my regret was to leave you, to waste your time
that I’m aghast at harm without a breath
how I’d give everything to shield you from thoughts of death

                                            how I’d give everything to be there for you
                                     You smiled,
                                but didn’t mean it;
                                      You cried,
                                     I didn’t see it
                            if time is what’s at stake
                       this time, Jack, I will be here

                                           for you

                                         JACK'S FOUND:
Time’s passed, and the curse has been lifted.
Two seconds awake and I can tell that some things are different.
My eyes open like a jack-in-the-box; my hand is twitching.
Then I’m embraced like a mother who has just found her lost children.

Something about this is oddly familiar. Except for the bed of a hospital.

M-M-M-Maya?
It can’t be, she–
Swatted her hands through the web of our plans
She and I are not connected
we are,
strangers again.
                                                          ­               "Tell me you’re okay, Jack."
"I’m okay, or I’ll be okay,"
Same clothes and the same smell,
Too familiar but I can’t tell
                            "I’m sorry, this time I’m sorry and this time I mean it.
                                                             ­                 this time I can help you."
I ****.
Help is not an option, I’ve determined, I’m for certain that it’s just another scam–IT ISN’T WORKING.
         "I know, I know, Jack, please. But give me a moment, a moment
                                                                ­                                  to show you."
Her grip is stronger, or wit is smarter, i don’t know but I can’t move.
"Maya no! Maya I–"
    "Jack, I’ve paid your medical bill. You’re free to go home, wherever
    that is but please, listen before you go. I know I’ve hurt you. I know
             I’ve left you at your lowest, kicked you when you were down,
   attacked your weakest spot. When your brother died of pneumonia,
     people thought it’d finally be the thing to shut you up. Everyone at
the campus thought that. Everyone despised you Jack! And I’m sorry
that people despise what they can’t understand, that people don’t see
   the beauty in difference. Some people just hated the way you spoke,
how every sentence, though they were few and far between, sounded
                like poetry. They hated when they heard your music playing
     through the walls as they walked the hallways, they hated walking
      by and seeing your murals on walls of the student center, and they
            hated most that you never seemed to care what people thought
                                                                ­                                            of you."
"Maya, I didn’t care for the majority because only the opinion of the minority mattered. But my currency of faith has been wasted, entrusting it in the hands of my friends presented falsely in truth. I hate it–I hate the insatiable feeling to trust, so that when the wall you lean on falls through, you know you can only put blame on yourself."

              "Jack, you’re not to blame. It’s me. I should’ve had your back
        instead of crumbling under the opinions of others. I just wanted a
   reaction, satisfactory, the joy of feeling like I’m found attractive. And
                     in doing so, I gave up on the only true friend I had–you."

I look into her face, forgiveness tackling me like a football player, forgiveness for her and I. And I hug her like a mother who’s just found her lost child.

what do i have
that you could want?

you’ve flown like missiles
swam like submarines
i haven’t counted grains of sand on the beach

i haven’t roared the thunders
or painted islands,
…and yet you look at me?

leaven lost a moment’s flavor
sweat trickles through layers of bread
i can’t redeem myself…
can you redeem me?

naked words, naked words
strip them down, we dress them up in route to work
and give them outfits that are ideas
then we let them model so others have heard–

every idle syllable that we have learned
squirms inside our minds like they’re buried worms
we pull one out to preen and style well
before sending off for them to do a work

and in return we want a reaction,
something to give the worms a satisfaction
the joy of feeling like they’re found attractive
after all, that’s all we’re really asking–

right?
to be beloved by the people on your side?
often times in you they don’t confide–
often times it’s you too hurt to cry
and seldom is there not a coat, hiding the thoughts of your mind

do in “putting your best foot forward” you lie?
crafting an image that’ll appeal to someone you like?
why, is it so easy to put away personality for performance–
to fall into the shadow of the unattainable
to be seduced by the worms of others

that we find ourselves inadequate in the perception of the image of another

maybe it’s the opposite we’re trying to achieve
to draw lower than our actual esteem
so instead we form an image that is broken and bleeding
hoping it’ll draw attention and the pity that we need
–
bad publicity is still publicity
pity is still attention

Truth is a scythe that is bent on taking
every ****, every lie that sounds persuasive
hurt by the Truth means that Truth showed it’s hand
swung at the **** you held onto in the sand

same clothes and the same smell,
same room and the same hair gel–
good handwriting and the fairwell–
every now and then I just feel compelled

to lay in ash and let the heart churn.
to lay in ash and let the scars burn.
to lay in ash in hopes I’ll discern
what the past is yelling with a reverb

same clothes and the same smell,
dead heart lives in a young cell
and the water’s dried in a new well,
could I be the pool that’ll consume hell?

just a drop, just a drop
a drip of time for a broken clock
a moment merry with a single petal
until life’s hands come to cut your knot

but a word, whether auditory or a written letter
whisper to me or pick up your feather
rehash to me a time of us together
or just give detail of the local weather

same clothes and the same smell,
too familiar but I can’t tell
how the notes played don’t produce spells
is it wordplay? Is it truth–

truth is, truth is hidden by a hoodie–
silhouette, water–dirt, very muddy
with confusion, has me seeing blurry;
tears of hope sting, supper’s full of hurting and
the similarity is too concerning…

same clothes and the same smell,
but the voice, no, no the voice fails
and the face lies, quite the fox tail
this is not right, this is not real
–
a wolf in white wool tells me I’m his friend
the teeth in his jaw are bathed in fresh blood
we’re friends from the past and though I thought he was dead
he defeated his troubles like he said that he would (–did he?)

because of slow sense and the charm of his wit
I’m the meal and the victim, defeated in good

same clothes and the same smell but
its. not. You.

Do we value money more than the time it takes to achieve it?
We waste our lives for it?
I waste my life for what?
My priorities for what? Missions, goals, dreams, for what?
I waste life on things I find more interesting than essays about people long put in the dust.
I hunger for highs, good times, but I get lows, work is important but how much–
for certain?–
I do not know.
I draw back from application, while wishing for balance. Instead of working hard I found it easy to survive off of talent.
I want to learn,
yet haven’t grown,
to find the equipoise of work and play. I know what I do instead.
I spend my time lazily, convincing myself at every turn that tomorrow will wait for me,
that I’ll have time
and
enough time to finish everything, and everything well.

take my breath, longing that i disappear
visions of fluorescence fly like birds from a tree
no matter how percipient, i still wake up from reveries–
and find that some chrysalises are blown away by rivers of the breeze
numbers tick, the tidy sum is a wall ever incomplete,
before choosing to become, a wave pierces its abode
jericho rocks, from a crack into rubble, the wind establishes its throne
and the man in metamorphosis, his wings shrivel around the bone
nature wraps its arms around the sorrowful–
his killer contrives burial–
the earth holds his lifeless soul–
made glorious
to put a smile on the face of the deploring–
but you’d never know

unseen, all there is to be seen
swallowed whole by rivers of the breeze
butterfly, take my breath

fluid, I find myself
sprinkled glitter on canvas
songs, I lift with the Anthus
agazed with the black dye of hour’s twelfth

for such a beauty is that bank of wealth
that calls the day and marks the annus
it holds the sparkles, the light they grant us
it is the shadow to use for stealth

have we made lights that rival our days
that our perception we drown?
too often we crowd the stage
with enough light to go around
it may be time to disengage
and admire the background

everybody lies
everyone lies to me
“don’t ask questions, and you won’t be lied to”
I don’t ask questions because I can’t afford truth–

and my currency of faith has been wasted
entrusting it in the hands of persons
presented falsely in truth

when I unwrap the façade, like a child with a gift
I notice the quite the con, from what was promised to what is

why do they play with the string attached to hope
how come they hit where I’m most vulnerable

I hate it–
I hate the insatiable feeling to trust
so when the wall you lean on falls through
you know you can only put blame on yourself

at least that's what the mind whispers when you're on the ground

i can’t court another cover
they’ve all fled from my arms
and abandoned their lover

i loved their souls
what their hearts confined
i thought i knew well

is it something i’ve done–
that they grow wings to withdraw
that they ride the wind away

i still need them so
but their rush to escape
tells me less of the same

former glory not sufficing
may you enjoy the rush of flowing from the lips of another
O stanza lines and book covers

can I wash my hands again?
because the blood’s not coming off
please–
help! i’m scrubbing as much as I can
but it won’t go away

i’m sorry, this time i’m sorry
this time i mean it
and if you help this time
i promise not to do it
again?

my hands remember
my hands remember

They remember the strings, lined across the frets

The remember the keys and how the chords connect

The remember the day, the first time I held a cigarette

and yet

today my hands forget...

time is reaching out again
                                                                ­                                     and we can’t
no, we can’t
                                              let days go bye

lest our souls forget
                                                                                                  the challenges
o the challenges
                                              of our sacrifice.

It hurts like a heart held in your hands
how mine rumbles, facing tension it cannot bare

  When, not if, it bursts, and gushes tender
I'm left no longer a living man

        I cry "gentle," and you squeeze
        your nails like fangs, the serpent
       from which I ask a relief

holes in my heart that I cannot mend

  limp, like the lying antelope as it surrenders
the lion's jaw, thick in the firm of his neck

  so, you've cornered me in feelings,
with your kisses as your canines, I–

unwillingly accept

in every high i hungered, a low in disguise
conman clearest, quite the simpleton am i?

though the blind cannot see,
with their ears, not their eyes–
the learn more of the Earth
than a stranger like i

do i know–?
how hear someone speak
through the songs of their cries

be a spoke–?
for the souls free-falling
from winds to demise

low hope–
and often it seems in my mind
that i dream of a life
more seasoned with time
and growth

(is it real? what grows in my heart?)

time need-be spent like preparing a meal
sweet sweat that proclaims of unwavering zeal
love came from the dust to the grains of the field

what a crop–
churned by the pain that i feel
every trial revealed
forms a love that’ll shield
every drop

of anger that aims to fulfill
all endangering thrills
till no longer i give you my all

Gunshots go off in the head of a man with a gun in his hand

He pictures an unload of the clip, and a picture of the clothes he was in, only picture to remember him by.

And it's nights like these when he's filled with regret that he thinks of wound drawing blood from his head.

                                                 |death|

find solace in his demise

Common that we treasure the joys of our possession when they are lost–
   thereby we try and savor–reminiscing–the freedoms we used to know, as to the soul, our slaver to fear consumes us whole

when will we turn around?