how inside feels moon
when slight suddenly
****** all nerves

          (tingling)

perched on breath
every vessel rages
with intensely purring starlight


                And
each self wholly vibrates
;teetering;
with brief invincible death.

My brain is a nuisance serpent, a Penelope polyp that recoils, recedes when it is most needed, hides behind itself, shoots into the cavities that have become cannabinoid landmines. I am not sure which parts are mine or whether there has been growth along with the debilitation, and would those ever balance as equalization? Can I discredit myself, credit myself—or I am I one big excuse? I excuse myself as I down one more glass, the neurons glaze, my myelins quieting the electricity; chemically, can I be held responsible for any change in chemistry? Can I qualify the distance between me and who I used to be?—and I’m tired of the Zen critics denying the difference; I try to focus presently, and, oh, I find myself in eternal flowered fields, transitory serenity—servant only to my misery; and so I beg to know: why can’t I stay there? They say we’re shared in suffering, but I’m not asking for consolation! I’m asking for hope—for possibility, that one day I—we—will be consciousness, and not some drifting broken barge atop her ever-swelling sea.

Every time I talk about writing-
My writing, my
Frivolous scribblings-in a
Negative light, you tell me,
"You have to write 200 bad poems
Before you can write a good one."
And I have not known you
Long enough to understand the
Nuances of your speech but
I have learned, quickly, that you
Are poetry
Now, this might sound cliche but what I mean is
That when I see you with your bony knees and
Isaac Newton hair my heart
Dips backward in between my ribs the
Fluid motion of your mouth flipping into a grin is a
Chain reaction to my own smile your
Piano fingers stained with ink or paint or dirt caked in life,
In adventures, are their own language and the way you move
Them when you speak makes a dance, a
Twisty tango of gyration and gesticulation.
Exhaling clouds of smoke from your lungs, you
Frame your forehead with tobacco laurels
And I don't worship you, no, but I admire you,
In the way that you cultivate goodnaturedness but
Hide behind it
In the way that you discuss bigdeal things in a
Nobigdeal way
If you wonder why I like you, it's because you are
Honest in a way that is raw and I've never
Felt someone cut me in two with just a gaze.
You are nervous energy and social anxiety and bred to live in nature.
You are suave in a lanky way and still unsure of yourself.
You are a star collapsing in on itself blazing so bright before you
Burn out.
And I want that.
I want that easiness and integrity and
Dancingontablesbecausewhynot and
Singing a song you don't know the words to in a rubberduck voice.
And I want you.
I want you to want me, to
Want to understand my nuances and quirks and hopes and fears and
Why I cringe inside a body that I never belonged to.
I want your poetry for myself.
So if I have to write 200 bad poems before I write 1 good one,
Regardless of where it falls-and where I fall-
This one is for you.

when you’re all alone with the mountains
in the light autumn breezes
does your mind drift back to me?
if so or if no
sway now
back and forth between
where you are
and where you’re from
you and me
reflected in pools of sand
your cheeks
my nose
our fingers meet
shattered distances at last
tension crescendos
and we shattered
into petals of memories
falling
falling
drifting
drifting
farther
farther
in the light autumn breezes
all alone with the mountains

Among the hills a meteorite
Lies huge; and moss has overgrown,
And wind and rain with touches light
Made soft, the contours of the stone.

Thus easily can Earth digest
A cinder of sidereal fire,
And make her translunary guest
The native of an English shire.

Nor is it strange these wanderers
Find in her lap their fitting place,
For every particle that's hers
Came at the first from outer space.

All that is Earth has once been sky;
Down from the sun of old she came,
Or from some star that travelled by
Too close to his entangling flame.

Hence, if belated drops yet fall
From heaven, on these her plastic power
Still works as once it worked on all
The glad rush of the *******.

The sea is
to me
As to Yeats Inisfree.

She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words,

from a palette of adjectives,
nouns and verbs,

the landscape she finds
in the folds of her mind

she exhibits in volumes of verse.

Facebook is great
at keeping fake friends
taking choreographed photos
and rating how well people show off

invasive on all levels
yet no one seems to mind
share every detail
every lie
everyone knows where you are tonight

fingers
trace my body
tactile trails
tingle and
blossom into
electricity
fading to forever
moments dissipating into
memory

words
fall from your lips, steam
from the brim of a
boiling cauldron, billowing
spell imbued breath
breathing life into
dormant seeds of poetry
that crack, spilling their
insides, sprouting sensually
spiraling tendrils, unwinding
whispering wisps
that kiss my neck
with hot, wet leaves
fingers of a fae