Last night the sun didn’t set--
it fell.
It fell into the depths
of the ocean,
it fell into an abyss of stars.
No light is shed on your eyes
anymore, I am not
distracted by their
understanding hue.
The light fell from your smile,
and now every time
it feels new,
almost unfamiliar.
The sun fell from an era


Of longing, of ailment,
of competition, of pseudo-romance.
The room I made for you
in my heart
has no windows and the lightbulbs are out.
The future I made for you
in my mind
is dark.

There's a rainy state
State of mind
Mind not heart
Heart is too fickle
Fickle and amorous too
Too much so to contain
Contain the rainy state
State of mind
Mind not body
Body is too present
Present, not a gift
Gift is too shiny, glimmering
Glimmering like raindrops
Raindrops that never smile

Graceless
You are graceless
She is wingless, like you
Only yours were honorary
Yours she gave to you, so generous
Hers you tore from her
Shoulder blades,
Pulled a feather from every pore
A petal every time
You asked whether or not
She had been in love with you

She was
And she wishes
You were missing the same pieces
That were taken from her
But at the same time
She couldn't hurt a fly
Not on purpose
Nor without consideration
Nor without consequence



Because she knows better than to do what you did.

You cut her
Yet your own blood
Doesn't run with guilt.

You're Graceless
Selfish

Yet not as Graceless
As the young woman
Whom you laid on a metal slab,
Dissected,
And sewed back together
With romantic detachment

You claimed her,
You cut her,
You maimed her,

Don't trivialize her anger
She deserves to feel something again
Let her fly,
Let her fly
*******,

She doesn't  want her family to watch her die

Bitterness--
Like dried, expired chocolate--
Is duller than listening to
Him talk about politics;
Waiting for it to rain
Then watching the sun come out
And hour later;
Craving a new cup of coffee
Only to walk two miles
To the stores to buy new creamer,
And coming home to find the mug
Cold as a ten year old corpse,
And the power is out
So I can’t heat it up
In the microwave.

I go out again,
To Starbucks or to Caribou,
Whoever is more likely
To ***** up my elaborate order
(The former);
I ignore the barista’s niceties,
Disappointed by my own
Social skills;
I chug,
Twenty minutes later
I’m still tired.

More discouraging
Are the shrill voices of my
Authorities;
Angry stirred with
High expectations or, sometimes,
Just angry.
Teaching me their definition
Of quick succession
And looking before leaping;
Yelling at me too…
Smile;
Calling for some…
Appreciation;
Yearning for some
Uncalled for
Domestication.

My head beats its drum,
Because every civil war
Needs a drummer boy
And the battle starts
With a rhythm.

They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

I could go on and on and on
But then I would stop.
Because I believe no one
Has the words,
Especially not I,
Not after the short time
I’ve been alive.

But what if I die?

I definitely wouldnt have
The words then.
Not a turn in my grave,
Not a thought in my brain.
I will have spent my
Living breath
Describing what I think
Death is like.
But by the time I am dead
I won’t know if I’m right.

I know what you’re thinking;
“She needs to unwind
No feelings lost
Yet no thoughts defined”

You’re right.

Please, don’t try and fix me
There’s a minute solution,
Bare with me,
Don’t bury me

with these beautiful complications,
Black flowers with white leaves
And red veins
Who says the sun
Can’t be neon-green?
The ocean will stay navy blue
And we will learn to appreciate
Ourselves, each other

Painting one another

Do you love it when I talk color?

The concrete walls
won't bind us
won’t speak to us
We have the will to kiss
But we don't.

Watch the glint in my eye
Become a glimmer.
In its reflection,
Watch yourself become an apple.
No, concrete walls
don't bind us to our fellow
**** sapiens sapiens,
and skyscrapers
don't portray the flora
and the fauna
of our generation,
yours and mine.

So if this comes down to nothing,
that's fine.
But take my hand.
Grab a paint brush,
carry this poem

with you or without you.
I no longer care about you
but for one last dance
I will cooperate.
I will find the words

for you.
I call myself nonchalant
yet I want more of you.

She says her boyfriend
is looking gray, not from age,
but from handsomeness

Little kernels converse
with my hot, oily blood when I
think about what you did

He has grown vines all
over his body from
old age and wisdom

Can I sing
Can I float upon his guitar string
Do I dare to grow
When will I know

to leave
and will the angels grieve
at thought of me
being gone? On my own?
Am I on my own?

I am not a work of art
nor will I ever be
as long as we assume that
a very human Human
is shattered at every thought,
everyone tells me
Let it die
and stop the crying
We are more than death’s travesty rhyming


(What future is this here in my hands?
What is there to touch unless one
Thrusts their arm
Forward?

Show me
that people can really break,
for I believe that
if this were true
being in love would have done so already)

I prefer watching
movies on my own, despite
being so helpless

Ten years sat on her
with all the weight
of a century
But the things she
saw
prodded her brain like a
dull scalpel
looking for
love to salvage
There was plenty

Trouble has its own number.
This prank would be funnier
if you were by my side

It is exhausting
to observe so much good in
so many people

Clicking their way forward and back,
Flip-flopping into or hearts
If a girl can con money
Out of their fathers’ pockets,
who’s to say
They can’t sway politicians?
Their lips kiss pictures.

Pictures of cannabis leaves, yellow and smiling
They live until they die,
don’t live until they’re married
And if they don’t find what they want,
what else do they need
besides a crowd of fellow millennials
Caring, caring?

Caring about cannabis’ rights
and the right to carry a GBF,
their money, their frame
and, above all, pepper spray
These girls are the new
honest, hard-working man,
Their sweet scent is coming.

Sweet pea and Moonlight Path.
the top-selling fragrances at
Bath and Body Works
Their battle-cry is only
as loud as their looks
Daisy dukes and Katy Perry
whispering, “What the hell is she wearing?

She dons thin, rose-gold underwear
and she’s lazy yet keyed-up
in her own skin
Her lovers are all the same
but she blames all men.
Her wings are Pink,
they protect her from catcalls.

Phaeton climbed his magic gold ladder,

but when he reached the clouds they crushed his very soul.

His head exploded into orange stars

and he died.

As thousands of years passed

those cosmic creatures turned blue

and became what we see today.

The sun is made of Phaeton's eyes.

Alexander Hamilton could write
like nobody's business,
while I'm sitting in lamplight
in the dim city,
and I can't even use
the resources I've been given,
nor take advantage of the
time I have
like he did.
And I have plenty of time,
I'm not running out of it,
just running out on life.

My love,
         take your time
It's all yours,
         take it off my hands
         (which bleed with it)
And if you prefer to steal it,
         that is not a crime,
         but peel your affection
         (layer by layer)
         from my heart
         (slowly)
         See how I've given you
A head start?

I'll follow you
(You seem to know
    where you're going)

I'll chase you
(You've got speed)

As long as I'm not forced to
(play this
     game with you)

And later
I might even get loose with you
(You know
    where to park)

The worst part is
I don't need to make amends
because I didn't
do anything wrong.
Not in my whole life.

I've done nothing
to earn years beyond my age.
You can only believe my words
mean something,
you can only feel something,
you can't make it exist.

Always on a dark, rainy morning
I’m waiting for release
Want to go outside,
Scream to be taken out for a walk,
Bark at my leash
Want real release
Because my chin is up now
And I’m quiet
Ready to see some terrible
Work getting done
Waiting for something to happen
I’m tired of outer peace
I long for a close encounter
Or a thousand fights
Blood released
Sweat released
Tears released
Not just internally

There isn’t a cup of tea large enough
Or a book long enough
To suit me either

But you’re old and dead and religious
Like classic literature,
And your legacy reaches all like me,
But not me.
I’d follow a lion anywhere.
Just not where I’m supposed to be.

"You're a doctor, right?"
he said as he lifted his shirt
"Tell me, is this normal?"

Across his torso were threads
of red, rose, gold
coinciding with black
They circled, they swirled, they turned,
They stretched upward
from his ribs, and from his gut
and became the shape
of a heart

I said, "I knew you were
hiding something."

A flower bending
in the wind doesn't actually
yield, though it seems so

After what feels like
a plethora of years
I've fallen in a hole
that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it
because once in a while
after a plethora of days
or hours
I am pulled apart by emotion.

No, not emotion--
the repercussions
thereof

The repercussions,
the repercussions of those repercussions,
and the repercussions of those--
A plethora of consequences

Have you ever been so stressed out
that you actually vomited?
Me... neither?
Instead I sway
from side-to-side
like a swing pushed
in the wrong direction
and as the sky turns
I make corrections
only hoping my wisdom is
"grammatically",
structurally sound--
unlike a skyscraper
pushed in the wrong direction--
As my eyes begin to burn
I wish the sky
would just stay dark
and that morning would never come
so I wouldn't have to meet
my daily migraine
nor the time of day
when I have to stop
wait
listen
learn
work
negotiate, speak, drum, impress,
produce, create, multiply
add and subtract
all in one sitting
all in one hour
every **** hour

Nor the time of day

when I start

to think

about

you.

That's when my mind
finds my heart.

They don't speak--
They just listen to one another
smiling sweet as Tupelo honey
I can almost imagine it
through the blood rushing
in my ears when I close them--
But it just feels
like a fist fight in my chest,
and the rage of it burns in my throat
and the spectators cheer them on
which resonates in my hands
which are then unable to write
which is a sad fact
that keeps my eyes from shutting at night,
at least not as soon as I want them to--

You don't have to tell me I'm crazy--

It screams at the back of my head when
you stare at me like that
thinking a plethora of
things that I can't keep in
a jar so that I can spread it
on my toast in the morning--
Saying a plethora
of things I misinterpret
to silence this
plethora of thoughts
that fall from my eyes
without ever reaching the ground
and the plethora
of grass-roots
who wouldn't know how to drink them
if they did
The plethora of times
I passed opportunities
without saying a word,
disguised them as reasons
not to say a plethora of phrases
in reply--
The plethora of plethoras
that communicate through an alphabet
of more than twenty-six letters
so that, in the middle of the night--
when I don't know what to dream about
and therefore must think instead--
it can irritate me
in more words than belong
in a dictionary.

But sometimes there's just one word
and the word that haunts me tonight is:

Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
That's the flat sound of Pl-,
a soft, tender eth-
and the gasp of an -a
Plethora--
Plethora--
A hundred things yet to be said
Plethora--
So many crises
so much time
Plethora--
Not quite enough to make you mine
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora--

Plethora...


Ple­thora...




Plethora...




Plethora...







*Plethora...­

Are we ***** of thought
or shapes of mass hoping to
hold on to something

beautiful and
ever-growing, heart-stealing,
even all-knowing

I am afraid for
what he would do if one day
he caught me crying

Wasteland--the people don't belong.
They must leave
so that the singular human
can be in its natural habitat.
Ice doesn't begin to describe
the summertime, the holidays,
spring,
every **** season.

Study your hopes and
fails; you might find you will grow
weary of it all

This is my poem
It is good enough for me
Out of things to write

Before I go to
bed, let me say, we belong
in dreams anyway