Slow the jewels, you sent spinning,
Glinting, incessant and bright.
Blinding, if not for your
Sympathetic silhouette
Shredding the steam,
Silently static.

When you were so sure, that
We weren't what you wanted,
My nails dug in deeper, and
Brown hair turned red.
Cackle back, if you're with it.

Sometimes sleep steals me,
Still on the sofa.
Surprisingly sedated,
Sustained by the echo of
Your voice, off walls too-familiar.

There's not enough fiction,
Spicing up this
Modern Real. But your
Smile is a story that I'll
Never tire of writing.

Did we get stuck on the
Long count to thirty? Did we
Lose our place, looking in the
Right City, to stay up?
Or did you hear that? I swear,
These dead-end hearts just
Shared a beat.

Listen, the camera couldn't
Get a good picture, but
Tonight the Moon looked
Like a lemon-wedge. And
I'm lying in bed, awake, 
Hoping you saw it.

If my kind of crazy ever becomes
Your kind of heat.
Stuck-on, sweating the
Small of your back.
I just think I'd like to know. But, I'm
Okay, either way.

Anything to
Help spin your gems,
Closed eyes, yearning,
Projected romantic foolishness.
Remaining, vigilant, relevant.

Bolt me, back onto the
Bracketing. Make me make my sense.
Turn me four shades of color, your
Psychics won't name, but
Keep the floor close to my knees.

Fruity alcohol inebriates the same way.
But take your berries outta my
******* tobacco.
Smoke my harsh ones, 'till your lungs scar.
Or, tell me that I'm vague. 

If your pick of poison ever matches
My brand of cigarettes
The floor's always open, without help, anyway.
Take care, for my sake, not to
Ash on the rug.
"Okay. Either way..."

The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet, 
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ******, if it all wasn't gorgeous.

The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having. 
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors. 

Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions. 
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you. 
Let them see where you're going: then, 
They run for the hills. 

"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"                
                                                               ­               What's a number, but an
                                                              ­                Excuse, or a limit?
"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."

Gasping at the light's 
Bounce off foreign plants. 
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing 
Faith in what you can't understand. 
Working for the worst people in the world. 
But because, you must 
Help, to exist. 

But break the bubble, 
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
                                                           ­                   Maybe get the **** out of the car?
"I'm getting there, ******."

Sometimes it’s something, as 
Simple and clean, tapping my
***** hat forwards, and 
Kicking my back heel against
The wall. 

Sometimes it’s the dank cavern
Of a Dodge’s backseat. 
The frozen entrance to the
Diseased freeway, breathing words 
Of tragedy and paranoia. 

But, sometimes, it’s
The painted landscape of a
Beach, that hung in the
Girl’s TV room, Lodged in place. 

I contact my mind’s
Travel agent, to find it, and 
Wearing Ricky’s sweatshirt I
Stare at the open water. 
Mindful of sharks,
And the smell of ***,
Or sometimes, Svedka. 

Or I’ll stare into Sam’s eyes,
Wishing instead to be 
Spying the bottom of
Jacky’s bottle.
Or Mary’s bowl. 

And when my *** hits the ground,
I’ll look up, this time,
And just like last time, the
Trees will melt. Dripping like
Engine sludge, onto a pavement.
Behind the pool of
Vaporized reality, walls of
Fire rise, so I’ll sit
Back a bit. 

But sometimes, it is too much. 
And I’m down on my
****** kneecaps, 
Appealing to the apparitions. 
Begging for a 
Box of wine.

Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.

You weren’t worth the
Hundred dollars it cost to
Keep you in my car. 
Princess got poached by the
League of Losers with Pedestrian Ideals.

I’d spit venom in your direction, if 
Poison meant anything to you. But
Akin to most things, so sub-human,
You miss the world moving around your
Ever pulsating veins, and repel these
Toxins with a slip of the tongue.

Around you I could line
Bodies of those you’d loved and left.
Each clasping hands with one another,
Privy to a specific type of pain, only you can
Deal out. And

In the center of the circle you’d
Stare, stunned by your state of
Affairs, and flings. Collectively concerned
For the safety of your
Rotting consciousness.

One by one, I could set these men
On fire, and hand you a place 
Where your head could be danced off.
Drunken and diving heart-first into
The burning lake of a 
Surfable crowd. Since that’s
All we are, serfs.

I hope the fire gets too close to your
Gorgeous face. I hope the
Love you receive is no more likable
Than a few more licks from the flames.
The scars couldn’t sideline you.
No one can stop ****.

The Queen, snowed-in, stopped for
Cigarettes and milk
Then drove another hundred. 
The Governor told her not to. 
I suppose I did too.

But it's two weeks later and 
I'll be ****** if we've heard
From her. 
Passionate about black lines,
And smaller yellow ones,
Metal arches, sweating salt
Since stained rain came,
And big green signs,
With numbered shields. 

She said, before she left, that she felt,
"Like a consequence.
Something that is constantly flaunting
How severe it is. 
A recourse, to a long-forgotten mistake,
That just learns to be dealt with."

Traversing the wasteland of white
Can teach you a thing, or 
Three. Like how you're not ready
To move upwards, if the
Phantom's shovel keeps filling
In your igloo. 

Every time she left,
I wrote myself down. 
Stories about how, when, and who
Should-Be-Growing,
And the day she lost Heyworth's smile.
I changed her name.
Poetic license, and whatnot.

It doesn't take long to 
Realize, picture or
No picture, they'll all
Still say their 1,000 words.
They earned them, when they
Caught you with the flash,
In-between dreamings. 

I don't need to hear from her.
I know what she'll say. 
A scathing remark about my advice,
A bite-back.
"Lay off the smokes. The Greyness may not claim us, 
Flagstaff, but sure as hell, has it made me paler."