Light shines off rivers flowing through,
every space I had
That was filled with you
Soft and simple crys make a stain,
Or find a dream.
If I was the one, maybe I could know the game
And the silence boils while the night is on fire.
I patiently wait like a bird on a wire.
our dreams are made of fear while sleep surrounds us.
Tunnels changing lanes
Summarize a kid’s pain inside a school bus.
Summer fall, October ends,
Shadows, odds and ends,
Winter won't pretend.
I know I'll see all again
The wind blows you over  me,
Catching teardrops in the leaves.
still every night I feel you breathe.
And the tension boils like sailors close to home,
Time is black, but you’ll want to be alone.
Fate does tempt itself a game of cat and mouse,
It soon will find us.
And anything we need,
God knows the devil could precede
In denying us.

Give me something that’s in my nature to love
Something to drink that’s thick and sweet
Something to listen to that’s ridiculous and beautiful
Something to preside over disturbance.

Give me something to turn plastic poetry to risky lyrics that fall off my teeth
Something to shove my tongue into that’s warm and receiving
Something to send a shiver through my subzero lungs
Something to stir my personal life to keep it from burning.

Give me something sensational to breathe in when the oxygen is stale
Something to wrap my arms around when they’re screaming
Something to lick that’s delicious and crazy
Something to stop my mind running and allow it a place to rest.

I’m asking this of you because
I’m torn between caution and cupidity,
Trying to maintain the majesty of whatever moment we’re in,
And my fear cannot be remedied by your silence.

While you sit still with your lanky arms crossed and your wet lips together
I’m busy fanning fate’s flames because I care too much.
While your depths prove endlessly interesting
Your eyes do not shift, they do not express, they do not think.
My loneliness is clinical, quantifiable, combustible material for tears.
I’m sick of making love on triviality
I’d rather be ******* over by passion.
My back aches and my tongue is thirsty and my heart craves everything
And each of them has been given only enough to sustain, not enough to thrive.

Thank you for the sepia tone dreams
and the coffee burns
and the splatter paint wars
and the red raw bite marks all over my neck
But I know I’m not being felt the same way that I feel you,
Caring for every inch of you, your heart and your body.
And I can’t take the one way street anymore.
This is the sound of me crashing as I wave goodbye.

My hands,
Flightless birds with parchment skin,
marked with scars, glowing white.
They turn blue when the weather is cold.
The old wives say to look for men
with hard-working scars on their palms.
But what of a woman with marked hands?

Every day
on the orange-line metro, she would wait;
wait with her lovely mahogany harp
and it's worn, threadbare case
for a dollar;
a piece of tangible hope,
as delicate strings of rhythm
filled her ears
and controlled her senses.
What people couldn't see
was the way her soul poured itself
into each pluck of a fragile string,
and how her eyes remained
fluttering,
as the entire symphony
harmonized around her insignificant tune;
vibrating through her chest;
booming through the auditorium,
which was really just an orange-line metro
and a lone woman with a lovely mahogany harp.
So the empty case came as no surprise
to anyone
except her,
as she shed a single warm tear
and stepped off the train into the cold, bitter night.

time dies
I sit awash in solitude
as moments fade to black
oblivion
could a thousand stars burning out
while 100 toddlers struggle to take final breaths
create a void like thisssssssssss


no.

------------ grasping at gasping groupers
------------ I goad distant relatives into diving without recycled air

bloated eyeballs remind me
of a different type of togetherness
isolation and indignation
unfettered and non-remorseful
inconsequential fallacies
facilitate fallout
and I leave this plane
regret laden

no...

she walks into walls as her strong points hide in public
incorporeal, I sit on a doughty shoulder awaiting reincarnation
doubting faith while languishing in purgatory
I realize the Catholics had it right
sexually abusing young boys
is the only ticket to heaven

I can’t tell you how often I yearned to be her cigarette.
Clasped between her fingers,
delicately placed and savored;
******* all that I had into her.

And as much as I wanted to fall into the creases
that parted each lip,
I wanted to be the first thing she tasted
when she drew her morning breath
And her every exhale to cover me like skin

I search
                                      for the words

                                                          ­                     I
wrote on my hips;

                                              but
                                                                ­              not another word,

                  left my frozen lips.

                                                          ­                      There is no way to
                                                                ­      springtime,

        the winter,
                   takes her tole.

                                                               ­       I bury myself away,
                                                         in this 3 pillow,
                                           double bedded hole.

Darling, but I keep myself sane.
               I dream of flowers in my hair & the warmth in your name.
    Early July conversations,
                        tapping strings, how we'd softly sing
                                           & were guided to one another's lips
      at the very touch of our finger tips.
                               I always thought I was better than this,
                                                                                                 but
                                                             ­            Love,
                                                                ­              
                                     Your heart is one I often miss.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
    And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
    Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
    I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
    So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
    And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
    On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
    Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
    On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing.