I become motionless when I look at your Azure –grave mystical eyes
My love I don’t know how to swim.
I am an Illiterate, love makes me so
You the mystic lady,
Taught me how to deceive this deceitful world without deceiving…
Don’t trust lady, separation is the only solution
When everything fails Death receives the admiration…….

A quiet kid,
lonely in the rain,
fingers the nickels and pennies
in his pockets, waiting for the bus
to splash around the corner,
so he can get to work.

He lives with a demon of a roommate,
and shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.

After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
in a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.

He stumbles through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption on his mind;
The worst kind of late night wanderer.

Coffee and sugar keep him alive--
just like war and famine are the black angel's wives--
bringing him back into this liquid reality.

In the mornings he breathes in this world,
totally sober.

It tastes like sourness
and the milk of ***** entrapped in blue jeans
in 100 degree weather
all day.

It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.

He lives many lives:

One for his mother,
where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks.
Little wreaths of future disappointment.

She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.

One for work,
all smiles
and plumb submission.
9-5.
5-2.
12-9.
6-3.
4-12.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.

All this in 5 dollar clothes
and a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
into truth.

One for his girl,
the one who'd hurl her tongue at Appollo,
puke up her month's sugar intake,
and curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
making a red and white fist like a christmas cinnabon:

If he ever told her who he really was.

His love for her is secret.

One life for himself,
to keep the mirror happy.

This kid.
He's all or nothing.

watching movies about serial killers again.
failing to see the difference between
what they did to their victims
and what you did to me.

maybe you never
pressed a knife against my neck
or tried to **** me
(so to speak)

but torture is torture
and there were blades against wrists
****** nights spent crying
wishing i was out of your realm
wishing your grip wasn't so right
wishing it was over
wishing i was dead

and maybe unlike a serial killer
you hadn't murdered me
but i sure as hell
wish you had

it was more than a week ago
when he burned my hand
and i called you up drunk.

she pulled the phone from my hand
and told me i was making a mistake.
i told her i was calling my mom
and she gave it back to me.

we were on the bus
when i called her
and i smiled at him and i felt dizzy.
she took my phone from my hand
and talked to her.

you didn't pick up so i called again.
ring.
   ring.
     ring.

i whispered in her ear
careful and afraid,
( i n t o x i c a t e d )
"don't tell her what i told you earlier."
she turned to me with an eye roll and said,
"i would never."
he watched us.

hands shaking as i texted you
as steady as i possibly could.
it might have been the third time i told you i love you that month.
you told me to stop texting.

she handed the phone back to me and got off the bus.
i told him to come over here.
he said no.
i sighed and sat next to him.
she was giggling in my ear.

i felt sad.
so i started to smoke.
she took my phone away.
my voice was hoarse from all the cigarettes
and my hands were frozen.
inside, someone turned on all the lights.

i handed him the phone.
he asked if you were my sister.

she gave me back my phone.
i messaged you again.
you said you were bowling.
i said i didn't care.

i hung up the phone and asked him where he was going.
we were alone.
he said orleans, what about you?
i said st laurent.
i told him my sister lives there.

you wouldn't call.
your phone was broken.
it went straight to voicemail.
you said i was drunk.
i said i wasn't.
i said he burned my hands and i made lots of friends.
you said congratulations.

i got off the bus before him.

i said i love you.
you said, "you're drunk."

i said i was scared
and that i was alone.
no one would answer my calls.
i got off the bus at my sisters.
i listened to the strokes.
someone behind me called my name.
i played with the cigarette pack in my pocket.
it was my sister's boyfriend.
he lead me up to their apartment.
they gave me beer.
and ****.

you said i should be talking to her.
i said i'd rather be talking to you.

i met a drug dealer
and tried to roll a joint.
they told me to keep drinking so i did.
it wasn't enough.

you said you were done.
i asked you why but i think i already knew the answer.

"i want to wake up with a hangover."
"keep drinking."

you went to bed.
i told you i love you.
you didn't answer.

i woke up at one in the afternoon
and told her we needed to talk.
i wasn't hungover.
i went out to my friends house.
i played with the cigarettes in my pocket.

i got home and asked you out.
you said yes.

i felt
complete.

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

i wanna feel like the ink in a pen does
as it crimps and curls and dances its way across a naked page

i wanna feel like the page being filled

give me a pulse like a double-time war drum
     thudTHUDDing towards crescendo
     with a cymbol-crash ache
and flesh that winds my spine and river bed curves
     like a stretch of highway on a midnight drive
     that fades into the face of the moon

gimme some of that star-stuff sparkle in my pete moss eyes
a few of saturn's rings 'round my hula-hips
and a solid kiss
     right on the lips

               yeah

when i grow up
          i think i'd like to be in love

Baptized in death incarnate, shown the worlds reality at a age of inspiration, with dreams dance upon the wings of butterflies in fields of daisy's, ******* the nectar of life, to sustain the biological imperative, that everything is connected beyond life and death.

Merge pen and ink, upon the fallen trees, show the world, the vulnerabilities of a soul lost in the shadows, were light fights the darkness to escape to another day, beyond the pages you write, beyond internal dialogue of devils and angels upon your shoulders.

Shower your soul, in the tears of angels, who have lost their wings and laid to rest upon the battleground, the lives of men, to stain sacred ground with life sustenance, every breath a battle you must tell now, so they are remembered in the pages of history

Purify this ground, with the ink within your veins, poet, rise from the ashes of reality, sprinkle the air with stardust, of fallen souls, in languid waves of desperation to live again, beyond the tragedy of death you've witnessed, here today. entitle, designate and cleanse this world a new, so every heart may know, deep within the recess of darkness within your eyes, incandescent flames burn the birth of a poet

Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it

Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but  I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice

Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel

Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same

Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you

Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?

Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.

Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either

Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something

Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.