Out of this world and through burned storybooks

Vespers and vapors of death-rattle breaths

Turn to birth cries only mists can hear

Through the chasm of her eyes

Like dark pits of asphalt

On a rainy night road

Wet and open.



We’re ghosts to a passing plane of shifting lives

Where broken glass crunch like egg shells

Under leather boots with steel toes

Worn by long torso-less patrolmen

Speaking in evangelical tongues

And slipping



The Silver-screen silhouettes telling me sweet nothings

And invisible people play moonlight sonatas

With skin-covered cellos and djembes

Near waterfalls and deep valleys

Of green and prosperous dreams

And life.



Animals to the metropolis, Human to the paper jungles—

Controlled, creative chaos next to whimsical

notorious passivity; it’s eclectic like tea.

Where do these words take us?

Where do worlds take you?

Everywhere and nowhere

But mostly



Anywhere.