I heard you cry dear brother.

I heard you cry and wanted to drink your tears and let the pain into my body.

I wanted your anguish to rush through my veins like the French mob never letting the wealthy sleep well, like lions around the prancing gazelles

I just wish I could never get a good night's sleep because dreams don't belong where brothers are unwell

I don't ask for much brother,

- just a smile and  your tears in a jar.



This is untrue my friend. I do wish for much.

I want the whole world at my fingertips the

Great Wall of China under my feet

starched collars and

Coach neckties I want everything I can squeeze out of Mother Nature before she collapses into a cloud of pink bubbles with nothing inside.



But you dear brother, you do not want the Great Wall beneath you but merely not around you. You just want to be able to keep your door open without fearing someone might see you wipe your cheekbones clean. And I, I apologize for not being there every time it closes to burst through with all my wishes compiled into one but I'm not that strong.

I'm not man enough to understand that wishes for gold mean nothing that no matter if I piled them together would they make one for your health

        -    I can't even see that I love my good night's sleep more than I love your smile



Forgive me.



This is why I write to you brother. I might not be strong enough to sip your pain away, but I want you to keep a jar in case I come to my senses before you find me hanging from my neckties.



If I do I'll drink them with a funny face.

Maybe then I could hear you laugh.

To my unborn son - I can imagine what your palms would look like covering my eyes from seeing past the wonders written in their lines

I can imagine how your fingers would tangle around my thumb silently wiping tears from under your fingernails after they've caressed my cheekbones.

How your toothless mouth would form a smile for every birthday you'd ever awaken

to the sound of a fireplace heating the brisk morning,

son I promise I'd never expose your birthmark to the brisk morning.

How I'd tell you rhyming stories of statues coming to life at night

wandering through the city's neon light

and how they'd stay out of sight

because they'd scare the people with their might,

just to hear your slowing breath as your eyes close and your mind wanders off into the night alongside the statues.

I can imagine seeing your mother in the way you'd pour orange juice into your glass and

ask me to remove the pulps.

In the way you would argue that fruit loops aren't candy, that I have your eyes when truth be told

I'd go blind at the sight of me inside of them.

How every comment on our resemblance would be brushed aside to later be pondered in a night where statues have grown claws tearing my throat.

Son I want you to know I'd love to wander of into the land of statues with you.

Long for your fingers grasping mine.

But I have seen your palms son, and I fear for you. They look so much like mine.

Wonders have nothing to do with it.

A bluebird hovers above rifles

raised in memory of people dying, clasping the cold edges of guns in the absence of their mothers' love.

Cheers ring out for survivors having embraced their triggers hard enough to keep breathing

as a million of last sighs were left united above the bruised treetops sobbing quietly in the burning fumes.

Scattered souls getting bled through eyes are seen among the laughing crowds, widows clutching their children's hands twice

making up for fathers lost in a foreign land.

The bluebird cries. His tears fall to the ground stomped by marching feet honoring those who cannot walk,

screaming every word the bird can't roll his tongue around, too real for his trembling lips to form.

His dropped jewels gleam in the

gloomy day as they let their vibrating voices break the crispness of the morning, pieces tumbling down into the

children of his sobs,

enhancing their strength as they shout out the horror of marching in memory of soldiers; the sadness of cheering surviving armies; the utter foolishness of raising guns dignifying buried boys that would have laughed and run, embosomed their children hard enough to squeeze the sorrow from out their skin, if greed wouldn't have given birth to those weapons.

Their shriek clangs through the streets,

clamoring how this should be a day spent mourning the lost men caught in uniforms brainwashed by altered patriotism, how their ashes shouldn't be strewed into a shatter grenade but planted along with
seeds of harmony on open fields,

how a peaceful world

should come to emerge from the endless graves where their spirits sleep.

The bluebird dives into the crowd, letting his body swirl around the uniforms walking stiffly through the darkening day.

He inhales before whirling down into a rifle held high in the sky,

allowing his tongue

to slide along the words no one marching has ever understood.

Freedom,

he calls. Let

peace

spread throughout the world, carried on the back of every bird floating across the empyrean until the message can be heard chanted from every mountain stroking the earth with its roots.

Let's honor the memory of lost men, he calls, let's learn to love as we now ****.

His voice is drowned by firings in the salute of lost troops. No one hears his last desperate cries, his throat celebrating his own mother who will never again

caress his plumage.

He clasps the coldness of the barrel, before his last breath unites with a

bullet.

Though I hear you're a poet, you look like just another average Joe to me, 

he said. I looked at him before answering.  Pardon me sir, but what does 

a poet look like? Does he have to wear his sorrow like a cape,

whirling in the harsh wind biting his cheeks until it

intervenes with his smile, leaving every attempt

resembling a colorless rainbow reflecting his

shadow walking aimlessly through the

endless night?

Does he 

have to let his eyes

spell out his excitement for broken

pedals landing next to his spread fingertips

ignited by the touch of nature, his hands painting

portraits in the sky of every winter morning graced by frozen

tears spread by crisp winds into the hands of a universe celebrating

the beauty of raindrops and bums and kings and snakes feeding off its wealth?

Please understand sir, I don't deny that I'm a Joe. I'm average, normal, a fully

functioning human being, except for the fact that my dreams are disturbed

by visions of my grandfather's bones breaking at the sound of a breath,

that my fingers not only itch with lust whenever a woman walks

by but vibrate with an urgent need to write and scream how

wonderful her cheekbones look in the dawning night,

that I cry alongside the earth whenever a

tree is put down, and that I can see

jewels splattered across

the ***** sidewalk

everyone just

runs past.

You see sir,

I'm not saying

we're different you

and I. Only that I'm a

POET

and you're not ALIVE.

You let me see the ache in my lover's cheeks;
the pride in my father's smile;
the utter beauty of a sundown against falling snow - Eyes I love you.
 
But eyes why do you let me perceive so much I wonder. 
 
The image of my lover's back;
the resentment in my father's smirk;
the rain washing all the beauty to ash - I can't stand it eyes.
 
The amazement of seeing wonders is clouded by the never-ending sorrows that keep replaying themselves all around my shoulder blades like devils in dust scorning and crying
           Screaming out every failure my trembling hands have ever pounded into friends and family only wanting me to stay away from the river, and the oblivion awaiting there.
 
Eyes, I am sorry.
 
I know you can't act like a father to a premature child and build bubbles of air all around me.
I know that love fades and fathers' hate and snow disappears at the first ray of spring. But eyes when you turn around and let me see the devil within you make me detest myself. I'm not strong enough to face the music I've made or the bridges I've left in flames -  
               I'm not even strong enough to face myself.
 
That's why I ask of you eyes, to please leave me be for a while.
I just need some time to learn to cope with the devil being alive.
 
I'll call for you when enough sunsets have passed and I've learned to live with my own name.
 
When I've learned to look my mistakes in the eye.
 
When I've learned to love myself.

Imagine a butterfly, gracefully letting the wind brush its wings as they reflect the sunshine caressing their gleaming purity,
stroking the empyrean
with their
innocence,
coloring the sky more wonderful than Da Vinci's brush ever could,
as the oceans are revived by the tears squeezed from his heart, tumbling down as the first rays of spring penetrate the hardened hand of winter, releasing its grip at the sight of the butterfly´s pouring eyes.

Now, imagine the butterfly falling from heaven as its throne crumbles in the crispness of dawn, his wings broken by the harsh winds of fall,
his life floating from his cracked lips
as his scorned body
ignites
in the last rays reaching through the hand more clenched than ever, no longer afraid of the butterfly burning in the darkest of nights, his eyes telling stories of the pain of being beaten by time.

Imagine a
butterfly,
dying in the ashes of summer getting swept through the streets by the northern wind.

Imagine a
butterfly on fire, his passion put on ice, never to
ignite
again.