I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.

And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.

In the end,
I will weep.
You don’t have
to remind me of that.

But still
I refuse to simply observe,
to delight in colors which
I cannot taste
and flavors that sting my eyes
from afar.

The process
of becoming
has become
painful.

Rather the salt of tears
on my tongue than the sour
of an empty mouth.

Belief is a delicate fixation,
fractured in a blink
and gone where it
cannot be fetched back.

And I do love to believe.
I’ll weep
because the days
have come
for belief to bloom
a child’s dandelion on
giggling exhalation,
fragmented in a hundred
directions of disjointed
daylight.

The days have come
when I will weep less.

My insides were scraped,
Molded, and shaped
Into words on the pages,
And my eyes watched
In silent horror (silent pleasure)
As the fire devoured emotional
Responses, (hopes) to the
Fabrication of reality you made
Me wear.

Grey dreams, papery lies
That streaked the pages of my hands.
Burnt poetry is the best kind
(Burnt memories are the best kind)


The tapping at my door
Keeps waking me up
And it isn't a raven
Asking me about some
Eleanor.
No, it is the urn, full
Of ash and imaginings
It rattles with displeasure;
I shall let it go.

Heavy, but light in my arms,
Taking the cinders to the sea
(Finally, I'd let you free.)
Only to have oxygen transform
And disfigure ash into butterflies;
They attacked ruthlessly, at my face
With kisses that brought back memories.

I blew out my wish
"Let this be my last" And
Suddenly, there was nothing
Just the results of paper and
Calefaction.

I’m spinning in circles and sea horses prove God
And when I sleep my eyes lie awake staring at my eyelids
And even when I do not listen I hear and it can never stop,
My heart will pump oxygen to every humming vibrating Technicolor cell until it just doesn’t anymore
And when I run away I surprise myself by already being wherever I am

lying next to
a beautiful girl
in a hammock.

the surrounding group of trees,
these towering peers,
each behave with distinct
co-dependent personality.

the one there is stretching his branches
in a single direction, like blown by a strong wind,
or frankenstein running,
away from the others-

other trees that
willingly co-mingle their branches.

still,
one tree seems
to have started out
growing towards the
others but has since
changed
direction
and
his branches bend tight
like elbows,
away from his neighbors.

maybe it was something
they said.

Suddenly a spent bloom
divebombs onto my shirt
trying to plant it's seed
in my chest,
i guess.

the girl shrieks
shifting wildly
and rocking the hammock.

It's just a flower,
i said.

She thought it
was a bee.

A feverish scurrying startles the saplings
And upsets the patchwork of dirt stone and sand
Expanding contractions of truths’ interactions
To passing set actions
But none have been planned

Sought self solidarity through solitude
Monasticism through poeticism

she said
that they would
travel the west
like a run on sentence

and to miss her
but she'd be safe
because he was
bringing a shotgun

and to visit.

and i will.

Choose carefully, what you have to give has secret powers.
Each cell that sparks from each fingertip that touches your skin.
It all creates silent notes which make silent songs we both dance too.
In the wrong hands the song just comes out flat and broken with no understanding or meaning,
like a train wreck on a barren prairie field.
Such disrespect for such a perfect instrument, created by the hand of God, to birth beauty in every moan.
This is why men use to have to perform feats, and risk there own lives,
just to prove they were worthy enough to stand guard in your shadow.
But what beauty, what indescribable sounds your body makes when it is plucked perfectly.
When each nerve sparks in the rhythm of both heart beats and every breath brings deep bass against our necks.
We move like smoke in a light breeze. We find anchor in the salt left by our sweat.
The universe bends to our silent song and when it is played just right, there's never a dry eye in the house.
So choose carefully who plucks your string.
And when its over I hope your left inspired to sing.