Teen sits in his room
reflecting on the walls and tables
Sometimes this place is a cafe
and is a little bit unstable
Crosses his legs,
forgets the dread,
self-hood brings him back
from the troubles inside his head
Take his hand, lead him out the door,
stoke his fire a little bit more

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Rests his head
upon the floor,
even the most grotesque things
won't bug him anymore
Young man doesn't watch them dance,
he knows he must grow his own steps before
they slip through his fingertips

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Young man, be your own man
You're halfway there, so don't disappear
again
The cafe is crowded,
yet you're not alone, not stuck in one place
like a drone
You move across the room, bright and tall,
and never again going to fall
Like you did the day before
your soul returned to just being a kid

Adolescence...

you are adolescent.

Don't leave me loving you
Here alone
***** my finger, at least,
and lull me to sleep
before you go.

Sometimes your face is
a little blurred, but then you
have a little fun

Stuck to the wall
with a pirate cringe, positivity illegal as sin
good vibes that almost hurt
like a wife-beater's undershirt
Tough to clean, hard to keep
even when the ground is getting steep
going up

They say it doesn't slam, gives you chance
it lays the land ahead
But I find the blue skies like to turn scarlet
and slip faithless from my wake
It's all me, all me
driving a stake through every chance I get

At regaining decorum--
which is hard to keep, tough to clean
after a massacre, a true disaster
The lawful bickers
of a girl curling in disgust because...


Because positivity feels counter-productive
Not to mention a little too...

Seductive.

These words are brought to you by a petty fit,
not a frolick, nor even
a moment of in-betweenness--
A ******-darling particulate fire
going up

I'm a lost soul, fingers cold
Stuck to the wall and let out a pirate cringe--
why don't you--
satisfy me with positivity legal as sin
Give me those good vibes, make them hurt
like a lover's wife's lacy undershirt
Nice and clean, hard to keep
especially when you're in. Too. Deep.
But you're only going up.
From. Here.

I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.

Fratellino's rock collection
turned into flower petals.
      Madre has a portrait of him
putting them in his hair, turning into Sorellina instead.

I will change your life,
your pensive rendezvous, and
that poppy-seed lean.

All you are doing
is telling death how to die
I already know

Lover,
Huntsman,

Burn a dove's heart in your--
campfire.
Serve it to me
in a saucer of tea.
"May your smiles fade to red
& green, sire."
The page will say.
In reply.
And like that our love will die

And for a moment I'm a gazelle
who hasn't yet fallen
to a lion's teeth
For the night I give in
to the stampede
and--this time for good--keep going

Going, going,
wind beaten as a sailor,
though I may be
flying the way a peacock does
(It's only a feeling, like peace is to a dove)

Let me say something
about the animals--
they keep going, too
They keep going for us
(I am no vegetarian, but sometimes,
instead of meat, I only need
to eat dust.)

For the same reason, I go on
until fed to something larger
than this small person inside
And, like an animal, I don't ever
feel the need to cry

What a strange feeling
Treading across the Taj Mahal
Floor as it look back at me

Boys play football in my heart
Their ball falls in a canal in
Venezia.
It's lost in
Venezia because I closed my eyes,
Guidebook in hand--
Phrasebook at my side--
Dictionary omnipresent somehow--

Mother calls them inside, it's time to learn again.

Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.

I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.

I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.

Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.

We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.

From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--

and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--

while I awaited you.

Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--

The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it



but I said it
and you left.

Went to the grave
this past Memorial Day
and saw it was covered
with mud.

With but a dish rag,
maintenance
didn't exactly leave a shine
behind them, walking
away as they massaged
their own aching backs.
Otherwise they could,
I don't know,
massage the backs that
are already broken.

"Don't graveyards have
maintenance-people for that?"

They are humble.
They like not to be known.

Tuesday's got a broken hot rod
It drives too slow, or doesn't go
Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead,
has creativity at best
has no productivity
but many things to arrest
And she's not only a loner
driving on a road,
she just doesn't want an answer
wants to keep her glow
Where is it?
Not where she thinks it is
Not in the trunk
not in the birdcage with the canary
not in the pistol in her kiss
Where is Tuesday going?
Not to Wednesday, that's for sure
Thursday's daydream makes her
unable to settle down anymore
She smiles, the sun is setting
If only Tuesday could learn to fix
that broken hot rod already

Ribbons calling against the wind,
stronger than our fences.
   Ribbons crawling to our feet
speak of our potential--
   They break our defenses

This door leads you right
where you are.
Scents and sights arriving
here are affirmation
of dying chemistry
between you and the world;
Therefore you sense them
stronger than man ever
has. Prophecies melt for
this inhuman moment, not
Unfamiliar to your spirit.

The Barista cooks you a
liquid meal, a brat hums
your favorite tune, but the
aftermath is they all leave.

Through a door which leads
them back again.

Daughter, son
Whatever  sensation
keeps them here with me
keeps you standing
stagnant
Ungasping, in need of
Gasping. A goner,
secret front-runner
This door leads you right
to yourself.
Scents and sensations
locked in our fish-eyes
Relinquish blindness, as is
your job.

Eyes are sensitive
Heart is foul on the outside
But you are moving on

Blossoms look better in the rain;
reaching into black mist and white wind,
singing like a deaf woman

I'll marry any man who agrees

He
nearly died today
because his 30 second-old love
couldn't stay,
The ruby red
bird winged
Merman of His Dream.

His heart attacked
his very own watered lungs,
The tears
which stopped his heart
like a sneeze.

He prayed, "Please."

The hospital bed Lord didn't reply,  and
He felt the plump nurses were
telling him
lies.

Rekindling of spirit
(folding in, billowing out)
with which we end the
day,
I dare you to
leave me.
The sun begs you to stay--
Give him the week off!
He needs a dozen
drinks!
Whiskey, gin, Pinot Grigio,
the whole lot!
He deserves a
feast!

And so the London Fog
stayed.
Coat and tea in hand,
thrown onto the mesh ground
despite,
tea arriving on cue--
Shallowed issues gone
askew,
Heart-screams louder
than the heart-worms
awash across the sidewalk

Day
dark like
Night

The
London Fog
Holds me tight

Soufflé light massages my eyes
A cool oven breeze puts out the lies
I am a Goner,
no lives

Lived this day as
boredom gallops through.
Its hooves are in need of a deep clean
They don't allow the light to gleam.
So the light lets off steam

Horses halt, dragging thief feet in hope
of defeating this power,
wishing the paper would jam

But the sun, though none the wiser,
paints the walls and the faces.
Cooks a most creative meal.
Brings the stampede to a kneel.

Do what you know is right
The fae-eyed stare
Pulls you outward
Thank them for the cool air
Brushing your feverish hair
Stop walking
Sit down before the world
Falls on your shoulders


I care enough to
bake a batch of innocence
before I go and
I struggle with my sweaters
everytime that it snows
And some days are more
difficult
than others, yes I'm not
often present in front
of the mirror
But give me a little time
to buy new furniture
And put things back
where they belong
Won't be long

Soon
I will swim without falling
Soon
I'll be able to observe
strangers while sitting
on a park bench
without being accused
of stalking

Soon
I can pause
for comedic timing [thank you, thank you]
Soon
maybe I'll have a new
best friend who I can
make out with
strings attached
And he'll like my hair
(...as much as I do)
Soon
people will say things
and really fathom
their words
They're wrong--
Won't be long

Until
I have a little fun
Until
I get to see someone
fall in love
Until
we crash and dance and
burn simultaneously
as if dying after living
only a short time
that felt long
Until
I die alone but maybe
a bit happy on the side
Then until
I live again

You say to yourself,
"Do what you know is right
and hang strife from the sun"
How do I know when I've
won?
("Won" is just a letter
and an apostrophe from
"won't"
And that's the funny thing
The future hasn't
met us yet, but it knows
how to play games)
Here's the perfect analogy
ever created:
To reach the answer
is to dig down down down
to china!

Yet doesn't it feel like
a daydream?
Like befriending your
favorite celebrity or perhaps
even seeing the end
of a war begun before
your lifetime

When all you can do is

Sit down, stop walking
before the future clutches
your arms, pressing
hard.
This is when you pull outward
and away.
You stare with those
unblinking, glassy eyes
who look omnipotent because
you're middle-aged and
they contain the
words from your wild youth.
(And with these words I can say
'I love you', future which I
will come to know.)

The closet which is warm
and cautious
has enough goals to drive-by
Hit-and-run ridding of
the winning that I live by
I struggle to walk in flip-flops
in the summer
But remind me that I'm
somewhat lost and I enjoy it,
sort of, once in a while,
Especially when everything
comes together again

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

Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.

I'm not going to be able to see you soon
I love it when you get a new song
And the rest of my favorite thing about it is not the same thing as the first place we went
The fact is that I don't know if you want me
The fact is the best way
For a long day
Is to make it so hard for us to reconcile

I'm not sure how I can see you soon
The only person who has been in my head
Hurts like the new version
Of a sudden urge to watch something burn
I love it when people are going out
I love it when I'm not going to be able
To see my friends and the other day
I didn't even get a job
Like I said I had

I want to write a story called
Pink Heather
about a soul that felt blue
A girl not yet herself,
an entirely wrong hue

It's alienation across the nation.


End of the break
the whistle's blowing
The sailors going only a short way
to heavens
Subterranean souls, yet
extraterrestrial minds
(I want to have a magnificent, celestial time)
Someone is dead
True, someone might be
curled in dread, somewhere
But the staff chooses not to
voice these concerns
to their guests

They-are-all
transported
to a place where their veins
don't show up blue
under that black light, yellow
dans-le-ciel
It's a dalliance for souls
(They are all lost.)
A denouement for souls
(How much does it cost?)

Better question,
who sends them here
(Every zephyr is cold)
who sends them here
to die and behold?
If I had a friend
they would ask,
"Why so alone?"
Because I move with the

Tintinnabulation across the nation.
People saying the most
cringe-worthy---
Like the nation
I fear I have become
an *imbrication
repeating myself in every
application
Working on that steamboat
the-band-wagon
isn't as good as it gets
Saccharine, summery lake
Do we, perhaps, need to escape?

And, perhaps, we can.

Dominated as we are
by Society, who is crying in need
Believes we must be a
panoply!

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.

To take an image
Cut it open, step into
A pretty coven

I first saw the wheat in the morning,
smelled the wind blustering forth--
Wondered that it must taste like
that very morning, in what complex way crops do.

And when the bear-locusts eat them,
what they would say
if they bled pans of gold to romance their amber,
if only then
would they be jubilant
if only on their death beds!

"Don't admire the fields," says Agricoltore.
Why?
"Because they like--they don't change."

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...­

He writes poems
the way he chooses what to wear in the morning
He does these two things like a child
learning Spanish, and he loves the language
very much, so why does it matter?
He feels at home
because Summer is eternal, being
the onions he hides under his floorboards
under his bed
He says, "They smell like shastas."

Drop the rocks
Full-grown pop in the jaw
Bleeding gold
Won't save your soul
Moving again and again and again and again
Until the pacific
Closes behind your back
because criticism smacks
kids out of whack
Morphemes-phonemes again
and again
Given the knowledge
of a recycling bin of
letters

Use them again and again
Won't save your soul
Atom smash logic replaying
and playing before your eyes
Some days it's too much
coal to mine
Mouth covered when you
step in time
Won't make your life
I'm a goner if I can't
stand on the rocks
and if the laundry doesn't burn
If the grim reaper doesn't speak
nonsense words from one
state of consciousness
to the other

Drop the bomb
Call the mob
Stock our shelves
Grow the letters
Feed all those starving
tongues

Let me tell you a story
Once the grim reaper
dressed like an old woman
and bought denture cream
just to know how it feels to
grow old
A human is an animal
Some think an olive is a fruit
A dog is a wolf on the inside
Begging to learn the trick
Speak

Next in line most wait
for straight prose
pinch their noses misguided
Want blood to bleed red
Don't want ideas to smash
their bread
Won't save their minds
from a punch in the gut
Mine closing in their faces
and their Atlantic drowns
shattered glass
encasing words upon words
owned by streams of

Consciousness running
all around
Those nonsense words
running aground
can't swim though all
the world's frowns.

Describe It accurately

Once

And give It a twirl of hair and boho skirt

Describe It once

with love full of hatred or

strife

Until your arms & legs

Shiver, until your gemmed rings

SNAP!

to pieces

Until, when your glossy

fingernails melt, a monster's

heart burns with sympathy.

Call It on the phone, don't

apologize if you hadn't

used

the right

Words.

A girl wishes the wind
would blow the hair off her scalp
Strong and abrasive, it
struggles with her like a friend
hoping to get a little peace and quiet
For once would she just relax,
enjoy some Tonight Show,
some Late Night
and step out of the penitent
date nights.

Let the world know that poetry
is great.
There is passion in its rough, gilded grooves
(I've seen it all)
Dance shoes under
(I've tried them on)
And overall, wicked smiles
(they have shown on my face).

I've read the Alice blue tears of a grown man
lined up like a tree so that
each line is a branch.
I've read all the things
that you think don't love each other,
but they simply do.
Poetry loves you--people and poems are
just the perfect
dance partners.
I've seen it all--

I've seen that crazy look
on a poet's face.
It is the best form of every thing
which is only tangible

through a poem.

I love these lines
I hate their stops
I love these words
I hate their last letters,
pirouetting like French kisses

They say, "So now it's done. Goodnight,
I love you.
Break that pencil in half,
now throw it away.
See you next time
The Demon
wants to stay.
You look so neat dressed in jewels
that complete you."

What am I?
Mother, father, (ladies first)
Can I be pretty?
It's warm in here, a green-
house of orchids. The ladies
& gentlemen come in to
have a look, woman's always
first.
At least,
give me the benefit of doubt;
Will I ever be pretty?
Doesn't matter much to me,
only, ladies first,
describe what it means to be
...human-god.
Human-god, human-god.
Jesus, and
I can carry my doubt like
a knapsack
through the cloud of eye-ful
bodies,  (fellow gods)