I tore a page out of my notebook and I burned it.
I tore another page out and I burned that too.
I ripped out every single page and burned each one.
But it wasn't enough.

So I tore the pictures from my wall and watched the faces melt away.
But I could still feel the need for destruction in the pit of my stomach.

So I put a joint to my lips and watched the smoke escape from my mouth.
But not even that could soothe my pain.

So I ran.
And I ran.
And I ran.
And as I ran I set fire to all the trees and bushes.
And as I sat there in the chaos I had caused I realised,
Nothing could burn the memory of you out of my brain.

.

         amidst the black and blue of
         this deviant twilight i see
the canyons on my hand are deep
next to the smoothness of your face
         a series of spirals and peaks that
         sway and beckon and beckon and sway

behind your hazel eye there is  
a place void of Future
tucked deep underneath sluggish
innocent blinks, invoked
especially for me
            and i sit here alone underneath it all in
            a pile of blood and carbon
            and i breathe them in
            by myself

inevitable stains have grown right
where your mouth should be
            like a long awaited drag or perhaps like
            our religion

and the shaded peaks in a distant forest
call too loudly for me now
and it has me
           and i feel both this entrance and an exit  
           consuming my chest and my toes and
           it has me and i fear

it has me thinking
             and i fear i am gone
i wanted to believe so badly
it would be you

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

"where the sun smoothes the dust-dry earth"  

the summer is not poetic,  
what is there in the gold
of the sun to write about?
just the heat and the stones
washed flat.  
the signs say you can't swim.
everything has stopped.  
there is no music in the air,
the mornings shrill and hum,
the afternoons drowse with beer.
is the ocean going to wake for me?
will it dance like a flower?  
along the dust black roads
the tarmac starts to sweat.  
torn open the thundering roads,
there is no poetry in them either.  
everywhere there are green leaves
and little drops of peace in the shade.

Reading,
         Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
    I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
       The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
      You all become real.

   Archives of the souls
    Instantaneous connection
        Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
    Your words
Invent more words,
    Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
    The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
    And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
     Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
     The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
    The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
    Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
    Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
    It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
       The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
     It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
      Your secrets,
           The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
   Beginnings,
Endings,
    You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
      Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:

The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.