I see through the eyes of others --
Crows and bears and beasts --
Like binoculars; like Dreams.

And I saw through your eyes,
A mans eyes, and learned
Empathy, understanding you,

Living as you, being you, and
How you saw me, and the spears
I ****** through your heart dwell in mine.

But I have the heart of a Beast,
And the skin of a Wolf --
Will I ever be able to be who I was

Again?

I've got bloodshot vision obstructed
By ash and smoke,
Grit and smog and ember.
The heat is always there, in the flame,
In the smoke, in the air --
In your hands,
Tickling the edges of my face and
Licking at my hair.
And even as the water level
Passes over my eyes, wetting my
Cheeks and jeans, I can
Still see you as
Clearly as the future we've etched
In the streets we've walked,
Down to the black robins that
Will settle on your face in the
Light of the campfire.

When the dust has settled and
The ashes scattered,
When the sound has all died out and
The leaves are left dry to crunch underfoot and
The doors to our homes are neither open nor
Closed but rotted to the ground where
They used to stand,
I'll still be sitting by my tent with my
Lone guitar, looking across the fire
Into your eyes focused on the
Mountains behind me, and
I don't think there's a single ******* thing
That could make me ever look back.

When I sleep in my room alone in my bed,
I lay with my back to the wall,
because an inch out is the edge, and be it hardwood
floors or knotted cedar trees the dark
permeates the room.  
There's nothing there, but I can never bring myself to
put my back to the unknown blindness beyond
my bed.
But when you sleep next to me in our twin bed, your feet warm next
to mine and more than half the blanket bunched under-
neath your chest;
when your drooling wets the pillow we share and
your warm breath tickles my nose,
I face the wall. I face you.

Swords and secrets slice the
Air like dragons wings, and
Meat and mead are split
Through thick beards and
Fair maiden faces, and
The songs and words pour
Out fantastically as my eyes
Soak up each page. But nothing
Will ever be as wonderful, or
Fantastic, or so awe inspiring, or
Purely powerful or magical
As those Oaken eyes that keep
Sentinel on my face, that perch
In a cream face of radiating
Beauty, a captivating to
Rival any story.

When we're out on the porch
In the heat of the sun, there's so much
Wonder about you --
I can't derive the tangent lines of the
Curls of your hair, or measure the
Light absorbance of your oaken eyes --
I can't integrate the perfect curve
Of your goddess body, or
Figure the infinite sum of your
Love for me --
I can't equate the fractals that
Make up your palm,
But I can kiss them all the same --

I can take you in like I do
The flowers I plant outside my
Window, more endless math
I don't care to figure --

Because just you with me, is
All I ever need.

She's the sun of my life
Who melts away the lead walls,
Tickles out the smiles, and
Brightens up my overcast.

Burn so green. Burn numbers, burn
faces, burn like Montag did so many years ago
-- mulch their ash until they are food for whiskers
between your toes. Fold the paper in origami
shapes until they are blades and bulbs and
branches; fold the paper into hats and planes
and quilt them into blankets for lovers.
Strip them of colour and print Bibles on them,
drowning them in water that will not dissolve.
Pull them tight across lips and blow on them
for reeds like thick blades of grass until
they hum like the wings of hummingbirds and
bumblebees and fill the air with audible chaff.
Send them covered in poetry in a brown paper
bag with that pretty girl you married long ago
for her lunch she didn't expect on that tired morning.
All this because you are blood and soil and earth,
and allow no less to tame you.

Let's take our pants off and eat
Dripping pancakes in underwear and
Flannel --
Let's have bookshelves full of
Heller and Hemingway next to
Seuss and Silverstein --
Let's criticize cartoons like their
Animated contents of all the
Louvre --
Let's get bent out of ******* shape
Over light pollution and not
Seeing the stars --
Let's lay on the couch head to foot in
Checkered socks and Five Iron tour
Shirts and play ska all day --
Let's let the living room be the
Ballroom full of nothing but you and
Me and the radio --
Let's drive my PT Cruiser like it's
A classic car that all the kids
Envy --
Let's play swing music like we're
The Squirrel Nut Zippers re
Incarnate--


Let's be friends, oh you,
My favourite person.

When the Seattle rain falls and
Pings on the mailbox --
The chill outside jostling the
Doorknob to find it locked --
Our rooms will be grey with overcast.

The TV will hum and thrum, and
Fuzz around our heads
While the ***** socks lay off
The foot of the bed
With us buried deep inside.

Her glistening eyes will sit inches
From mine, gingerbread
And coffee dripping in thick caramel
From which the gloom fled
Like tsunamis back out the windows,
      and

Like braille under my fingertips I'll feel
The goosebumps of her skin,
And we'll lay here like it's the place
We've always been, with Yossarian's
Tail thumping the floor.

The Sun holds her chisel ever steady
In her warm tan hands;
She presses the warm steel
To my face.
She is obsessed with time --
Knowing she's getting
Ever older.
With every circle I dance around her,
She etches another tally
On my face,
To remind herself how old she is
In me.

It was the Watermelon in your hair --
You know,
The way the red juice dripped
Off your draping curls, and spilled
On your shirt.

It was the way you sat with me while
We watched fireworks --
A love I couldn't yet feel while I was
Still so Alone
-- and before that when we
Sat at the park, listening
To ****.

It was the way it was you and me,
Laughing over a small screen
Away from the others; the way
You made me feel so wanted.

It was the way you snorted when
You laughed, and lifted your
Nose to give me piggy
Kisses after each and every one.

But the it was never stopped.
It never will.

On a bench at the park, in
The last light of day,
I wring and fling my tongue
Like a brush full of paint --
I beat it and the dusty words
Fly from the old red rug.
The splatters and droplets
She uses to paint a smile, gorgeous
And colourful, and she wraps the
Rug in her own, wringing
The dust out of both.

Let go of the branch with
Me. We are both flush red
With each other and it is
Time for us to go ahead,
Down to the river that flows
And eddies in pools
That will take us away and
Spin us like spools.

It is October and we cling high
Above in a time that calls Fall,
And we resist because we feel we are
Each a universe, but
Forget that we are Galaxies
In diapers.

I will be with you until
The sun is cold,
And I will love you until
We are old and withered,
And you are still  Goddess.
I know I will be with you
Because you
Are the only one I want
In my lungs,
Giving me my words and
Teaching my tongue --
Your habits of love
Change me daily and
I find myself
Speaking you.

There is everywhere to breath
around this room.

By the window. Where the trees grow
and the speed limit sign stands
Ever vigilant.
The trees breath fresh air through the
White blinds we pull down
together; crisp delicious oxygen that
soars through our lungs like mineral water.

By the table. Where the Thai noodles
sweat their salty scents and
natural perfumes; our favourite
Smells and tastes. The cards slap down loud
In the midst of the crowded black wood,
and they steal our breath with laughter.

In the basement. Where the cold air Sleeps
and the quiet dominates. Where we
Sit in the couches that swallow us
Whole, and where we so
Often whisper to the walls.

But over all these places, your lungs.
Where your breath lays serene
with a rabble of lazy butterflies, and is
the home behind your pink gates.
Your lungs, where I steal my breath from
With both hands on your face, steady,
Unwavering.

We saw ourselves ten years from now,
In the people that you sat for;
Their house was full of things we like
And lots of punk and rock lore.
They both had tats and funny hair, and
Loved all the stupid movies,
At three and one he was young,
And she was still a beauty.

The best part though wasn't that
We saw what we'll most be into,
But that you assumed that ten
Years from now, I'll still be allowed
      to love you.

I will always love the
Scribbling scratched out scrawls
You make, whether ink on
Paper or the
Creases on your red lips,
They whisper to me both.

When the bubble foam snow
Floated down from the sky,
I could feel her next to me
With her deep brown eyes
Ready to jump and laugh and
Smother my arm
And kiss my nose with her
Lips so red and warm.
But when I turned to look
Where she stood over there
All that greeted me was
A gust of cold empty air,
And this cheap Christmas
Pageantry lost all of it's taste,
Because without her with me
Time feels like a waste.

You knelt beside
The fires glow,
And blew long and deep
Through grasses low;
A gentle breeze
Of hum and whistle --
Soft and sweet through blade
And thistle.
I listened close and you
Took my voice,
And then my soul
Without a choice --
'Cause you're no mortal
When you sing;
You're and angel,
Love --
With invisible wings.

My mind is swaddled tightly
In wool by your look;
Your smell is the cotton ball crammed
Over my tongue.
Your laugh is what ties my laces
Together, conspiring
      to trip me.
The way your chest heaves with breath
Is the dampness in my palms,
And the elegance of your brilliance
Is the torrent to
      extinguish the fires of my
            mind. A spark; a sizzle.

Even as the ******* fish
Dressed in shining scales and
A big white eye swims across
The sky, I can only see her:
The Curls of her ebony hair
Twirl in ebbs and eddies,
Up up and up to drift
Down in bouncy springs;
Each strand lazily lofts around
Like deep Autumn leaves
Fluttering around, springing
Up and unwinding down to lick
And kiss at her neck like I do.

A momentary glimpse
Of the cream that you bare --
The smoothly curved
Marble

Deliberately created
With breathing pores;
Hues of pink like dramatic
Shadows;

Moving with natural
Fluidity like the silent
Planets that drift in the depths of
Space;

That demands reverence
And study like none other --
Is enough to burst the
Heart.

She's mid-breath when she
Takes the glass and
Splashes the water down her face;
She buries her head in a grave,
In a ground made of
Flannel, speckled with puddles.
Her hands ***** at the electric
Fence, and her fingers
Spasm and grasp and clench tight.
The sides of her back are butterfly
Wings, that flutter
With every gasp and shutter.
Her hair is the dark sky above her,
That hugs her red eyes
With fingers that sparkle thin white.

I've got nothing to say, so I say
It all; I ramble
Until her shudders are giggles --
The eclipse passes and the sun
Is in the night sky, Licking
Up and reflecting the sky specks.

So I'll put the lit up flakes on her
Already red nose,
And let the clouds dry up.

It cradles between your cupped
Palms, a big red strawberry
That pours its thick syrupy juice
Over knots in tongues
After whispering tales of birds;
It strains between every pause
Before it gets to scream and
Stutter your syllables to whatever
Fleeting, uncaring wind drifts past
It's red pulsing lips that stretch
Its fingers out to ***** at the feeling
That recedes to memory when you
Have to go.

For a bird, a girl, a friend, a love*

This new Winter has frozen deep; the
Frostbite pains to the core.
Faces so numb no smiles are shown,
Hearts chilled to black.
The wind sings a new song of nails on
Faces; A song of
Anxiety fills the air. Ice lays thick on her
Chest -- a weight she
Should not bear.

Tears stream over apple red cheeks, but
Freeze before they fall;
The boughs of trees bend down under the
Weights of winter to
Condemn her, to shed dead leaves of shame
Naught she deserves.

But there will come soft snows like
Wet kisses on brows,
And wet kisses of brows like petals
On sheets;
Love will warm like the rush of
A blush from stares,
The stares from eyes that reflect
Clear Winter skies.

Though it will still be cold -- and the
Wind a sting -- it
Will be like the season she once loved
So long ago,
And never will she be alone; never
Will her hand be empty.

The walls are built
High and thick -- they
Are a border -- hardened
By age and time; I am

Ready to take them down
With my chain of two links --
The same chain that binds
Me -- keeping me from

You.

The pink flesh is
Soft like the sound of
Silk through
Fresh green grass --
Lips on lips.
Marasmus has waited
For the sweet
Covetous flesh to pour
Into my mouth
Before leaving, wishing
She could take
Some of the taste with
Her.
There are many fruits
In the world,
But this one -- the one
The spills her
Liquid tongue over mine
-- is my experience
Alone. If not then, than for
Now and forever.

They wake up
To each other. Warm
Beside, arm in arm.

I wake up to my
Pool of blood, surgical gauze
Drenched, pills in hand.

A clock, where time
Does not move;
A ruler, where space is
Nonexistent;
A candle in the middle
Of a burning star;
Letters, when language
Is forgotten;
A stolen life, without
Curiosity;
Tracks and ties, naked
Of trains;
Clouds, without the puppies
We see in them;
A writer, without a story
To write;
A destination, without
The journey;
People, without each
Other. . .

Maybe even me on a Sunday,
Without you beside me?

In a Victorian train station,
Amonsgt a plowed tile floor
Of long brown benches,
I sat: a brass statue.

I stood in the waiting room
Watching the travelers scurry
About, keeping up in their own
Little rat race.

They would walk around
Through the rows of benches,
Looking at me, or the windows,
Or the clocks.

I would sit in my space amongst
The benches, in my shaft of light
That came down from the arches
In the ceiling, thinking I was content.

Minutes would turn to hours,
Hours to days, days to seasons
Time after time. And then --
You came.

You were so like me: an
Almost brass statue; a not-once
Person, gilded over in a
Seemingly perfect pose.

They sat you right next to
Me; we were like two sides
Of an old coin, spinning in
An empty space of the station.

Your silence was plenty for me.
I no longer looked at the
Scurriers and travelers, but
Instead on you, us, together.

In all the room in a vast station
I was fortunate enough to
Have you placed perfectly
Next to me. Me.

But it wasn't to last. The men
Came to haul to around: to
Kiosks and platforms and
Other waiting areas.

Then. . . I became the fidgeter.
The seasons broke down, to days
Minutes seconds moments,
Moments without you.

And when you came around
Again we both delighted in the
Sunlight through the arches and
Each others inevitable silence.

And when the station closed,
You never had to move again.
There was no where left to move you,
No more emptiness to fill.

So they set us in a park -- by black
Benches with pigeons instead of
Trains. Together we got to watch
The minutes turn to days, and in

Turn seasons.
I never waited again.

As children, most all of us
Exclusively listen to short, soft songs,
In G major with endings that
Resolve.

They have a chorus, and
A verse, and they are pleasant to hear,
And we laugh and giggle and sing
Along.

But as we grow up, we listen
To the dissonance. We appreciate the
Disharmony and the
Unresolved.

We appreciate the disharmony
In the sounds, in each other, in around us;
We learn to love the dysfunction between
Us.

Because the world, nor anything
Of it, will ever be perfect. But we have to
Learn to appreciate it, and be ****** up by
It.

And though it wont always sound
Like magic, because sometimes we are
An E chromatic seventh, I still choose to love
You.

Sometimes,
All I wish to do,
Is put what's between us
Into prose.

But sometimes,
It's too ******* special
For words to come close to,
Or to share.

It's raining outside. Of course
It's raining outside, it always
Rains here.

The drops rasp on the skylight;
They streak down the windows,
Clinging onto
               the glass, praying not to hit
                              the ground.

Hitting on the glass, the ticky-tack
Drip-drop pitter-patter paradiddle
Resounds in my mind.

I hear it, the rain, but not the rain.
I hear it, your voice.

The way you laugh, your rises and
falls, your tiny snorts, your aghast
gasps and sounds of speech.

Your lips parting and pursing, your
Tongue weaving a song, breath
Sounding and resounding
               with the rise and fall of your
                              chest, heavy with tender love.

The deep gray refracted in the water
Is so friendly, so inviting, when it
Speaks with your gentle voice.

It's raining outside, and I would bet
It's raining on you too. Maybe even,
The whispers in the rain,

Sound like me
to you.

Train cars clack by me on tracks,
A steady rhythm
Each one a crashing indecision.

I'd like to ride up on those cars,
With a backpack
And my one special jazzy guitar;

I want to live like the homeless do,
See the world;
Gain amazing outside experience.

But that's a little out there, eh,
Lets get back
To something better:

I want to end up with this one girl,
A Kindergarten teacher
Waking up to her every morning.

I want to be something like a writer,
Something worth life
Not just problems and equations:

I love to read and process words with
Her head resting
Softly, safely, in my lap.

But I'm tied down by deep blue veins,
Needles sticking out;
Tied down by pills taken all the time. . .

I don't want to rely on medications just
To simply live,
To have them be the death of me.

I want to live the life I want, and not worry
About just living.

His card opens and closes, singing
Happy Birthday to him in the
Other room. He's six today.

I walk over to him, as he sits
In the darkness;
The hanging air as black as his skin.
I sit next to him in a hug:
"What's up kiddo?"
He replies with, "I like the singing"
But underneath the words, all
I hear is his voice from days ago,
"I don't like my skin. It makes me --

unloveable."

"I like the singing too, how about
We go play with your new Legos?"
His face lights up with a brightness
Only his dark tone could contain.
"Let's do it big brother!"
I tell him I love him.
I tell him I think he's beautiful.

His six short years, filled with more
Pain than I'll ever know.

I'm just glad he's mine.

This house is haunted.
Not like black, running with blood haunted,
But like a grey tinge, a missing of something ---
Important.

The walls are dead trees,
The lights are like white lifeless faces.
The world is a colourless kind of beautiful,
The black bough the red petal faces appear on
At the metro.

This house is haunted.
Not with ghosts or spirits. Not with creaks, but silence;
Not cold shivers, but an utter lack of; Not
Full of things that shouldn't be but
Instead lacking, missing what should
Be in the space you don't occupy.

This house is haunted,
By the silence your footsteps
Don't create.

If people were like books, I think that you
Would be among the best. Not ****** life,
But instead loving like sweet honeydew.
Your brown coffee stains, ripped pages, and strife
Give you attraction; black letters give depth.
Your cover is deep brown freckle covered --
Not strained stripped blond, but color wide of breadth.
Your words are full of thoughts rediscovered,
Once old, now part of a new kind of youth.
My minds palate savours each of your words,
Every one full of grace and Christ and couth:
The sounds they make from a beautiful bird.

I am the sieve and your love is the sand
               and you'll try, oh you'll succeed,
To fill me with many deserts by your hand.

I will throw up words
made of barbs and spikes
that cut and ****, if it means
you'll stick around for just
a couple seconds longer.

I despise my last name.
Someone should come, and
Take it for me.

The steel folding chair, is nice and
Chill against the
Back of my calves. I see her,
Over there, doing
All that she loves. Twirling her pencils,
Pressing her keys,
Chiming her voice and gliding her feet,
Lost in the music and
Syllables she floats so gracefully in,
Not drowning but so
Lovely surrounded and submersed.
The pink butterflies
Land and take off of her like she's nothing
But flower petals arranged
Perfectly together. They whisper her words,
Ideas, heart strings, all
That they bring from and back to her.

On the lightest tip-
Toes, she sneaks over and tells me to come
Join her. She playfully
Begs and pleads and tugs with all her might.
Sometimes I'm there
With her, but sometimes, I just like to
Be in my chair. Because
What I first came here to do, was to sit and
Smile at all that she does.

The Arbor man comes in and
Takes off his shoes, home at last.
I know I will never truly
Be able to fill them.

I shed my shell
Too cramped and ***** --
Just to find my new one
Is just as suffocating,
And maybe more
Disgusting.

I will kiss your skin
Like brushstrokes on a painting,
Until they are more numerous
Than all the grains of sand
On that long beach you love so dearly.

They wont leave your body
Until you see the lack
Of flaws in you that I do, and

One day their memory on you
Might be all that's left
Of me

She's the sun and stars.

Close and with me, she
Lights up the day.
Brilliant and blinding;
Ever loving, ever caring.
Warming my skin,
Her arms wrap all around.

Far away she's the same
Beast, but distant and
Far by night. I can't see
But her old light.
Still brilliant and beautiful,
But gone, and yearning;
Time and space, an envelope.
She's pulled away by
The black ocean, and we sleep
A separate sleep
Till the Eastern gate
Allow her back to me again.

She's the sun and stars, and
I will miss her till the
East and West are one.