I want to see where nice words are used on young ladies.
                      ****** Rome of rude-bred heights from the balcony of the city of dynamite.  The villagers sacrifice their seven pounds of worry, and sleep like children in caves of textile reactors. Souls packed in coins and gasoline sin are sold hot at the bazaar on a University campus in America. What the **** do these lambs do in societal gardens? What the hell do pets know watching letters drizzle from the clouds? Parcel dreams scattered on foster children--I want to know where all our words for niceties went when we paid the women to be young.
                                                                      Devils make knees slick
                                                                   barbwire anacondas bless our country
                                                   write a laugh--write a song--and we will all work it out

                       We--used as a rapier to categorize the salt in vigorous blood flow--the bells, the bells of centuries worth of midnights. I--the edited cobble in roads that precipitation breaks in stride. Hearing the  rambles of lucky men in the next room, but I know young ladies don't kiss and tell to friends they find effeminate, they rupture and explode. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh with squeaky voices as true as poetry. Now they mumble till they are paid.
                                       But you--are no *******, just an empty glass with chunks of broken accents skipping deadlines in life, for new deadlines in life. Abstract puzzle pieces resemble therapy that burns the interrupted wick in--you.  
   But as for--them--they--or others--delirium commercializes whispers aching the back of their tonsils till there is no relief, but coin to pay for more coin that will pay for more coin. Relief is in another language they refuse to learn because they are arrogant.

Cats scowl at one in the morning for attention, nails anchored in carpet, the rest of us are tired by the week of spending. They want more, more, more--till the gates in your eyes open.

your face is leaking shadows, baby
you ain't got nothing to lose today
so tie up your white shoelaces
and get on your way

deep inside yourself you'll find
something glistening to remind
you that you've got to get a move on
and never look behind

How I wish I was the cigarette
that brings you back down easy
pressed between your soft lips

How I wish I was the sheets
that keep you warm and safe at night
wrapped around your delicate frame

How I wish I was the guitar
that sings familiar to you each night
caressed by your gentle hands

How I wish I was the book
that spoke understanding to you across time
gazed upon intently by your longing eyes

I believe I was the poem
that you created in your sorrow
crumpled up and thrown away

...were you ashamed?

The creatures of Greenlee were happy.
Why not?
Their sun was yellow
And their grass was not.

It was a good time to be out,
A good time to dance,
And maybe greet the flowers
If you got the chance.

A good time to keep friends,
Which is as nice as making friends.
A good time to forget who you are,
And follow the river bend.

Everyone was so happy,
No one cared to stop,
To notice for months the clouds moved on,
Without offering a drop.

At first just the river,
Then a few trees,
And a little while later,
There was no more green
in Greenlee.

The sun blazed yellow,
And the grass did too.
And Trout’s shrinking pond,
Was the only thing blue.

The animals gathered round --
Squirrel, Hare, Dove, and Bear --
To watch as dear Trout
Swam around in despair.

Deer and Butterfly, Caterpillar and Fly,
And all creatures below and above our eyes,
Came over to Trout’s pond
To say their goodbyes.

The morning Trout died,
The pond was just dirt.
The animals all smiled,
And then collapsed with thirst.

It was a whisper in my day, seven quick
words against stark white to remind me who I am:

I am the words spilling from the point of
my Pilot XGrip, carefully ordered to represent
my wandering mind.

I am a mess, the pile of laundry huddled next
to an overflowing dresser, a muddled sea of
organized chaos.

I am movement caught in the stillness of a
photograph, the buzzing blood flow of
finding moments.

I am summer, a sticky shirt and 4 am with
your arms draping over my shoulders for
the second time.

I am flapping wings and shattered thoughts, a kiss,
and eyes one inch from mine yet I have no idea
what color I am.

I am you.
And even still I am him,
the you that came before you.

I am six months ago, the night I teetered on
the railing long enough for him to tell me how
pretty I looked.

I am the stairs he joined me on, the hide out from
the party he invited me to and I couldn’t quite
fit in with.

I am train seats
and crossword puzzles,
strange professors
and picnic tables.
I am orange cheese puffs
and little kids answering
grown up questions.

I am you,
the other you,
the better you,
the you that got away.

It's always on a day like this
When morning kisses me awake
And I
Upon the magic trip
Slip into shirt and jeans.

Then leaning into a cup of tea
I open up the world to see
The news.
So many views (Not many likes)
I choose to enter
Exiting my door
I fall away into much more
Than commonplace.

She looks nice
A face I'd want to look at twice
And so I do.

A bus..a walk..a talk with Sanjay at the Paper shop
Where I often stop to pass the time
And then the park
Stark
A contrast to a month ago when the flow of leaves
Became a river on the ground.
Now
Not a sound except the cracking of a nut
A squirrel but it scampers up the bony tree.

The day I came to see
Has seen it all before
The seasonal shift..the lifting light
The shortest day and the longest night but to me it's new
Or just another look at the same old view
I decide
And provide myself with the truth.

i found the secret to life
scrawled upon a crumbling brick wall
all those years ago
in a down-town pub house bathroom stall
and i wish i'd never read it

some things just can't be erased
not with paint thinner
and not with the sands of time

no
some things stain
some wounds scar forever
leaving cursive reminders of fights we've survived
and nights that parts of us died
to make room for something bigger

sometimes you have to paint the walls
in an attempt to silence the stories they whisper
recalling all they've seen

all that we've witnessed
and wished to forget

all the one-liners
and fist fights
and nights that should have never happened
those foggy moonlight memories
of evenings soaked in adrenaline highs
and cigarette smoke

sometimes you have to demolish the walls entirely
burn the structures of your nightmares and your fairy tales both
and spend more of your nights
with nothing
in between you
and the stars

The way her chest falls and rises again
to come back and meet with her clothes,
I find it comforting - not sure why,
but I do.

Maybe, It's because when I see her breathing in,
Slowly, relaxed, on time,
She can do it, so then I know,
So can I.

The waves come in and hug the sand,
Just like her chest does in breathing.
I come in to hold her hand,
but she's forever leaving.