Puckered lips.
'How should I move' and 'where should she meet me'
Forth on. And I don't. And she won't.
Unconventional.
We're ******, love. Smitten.
Frost-struck fools.
Your hand didn't find mine when I lost my footing,
And you won't understand why people don't come here,
The place where none should stand
to fall.

No response. Unkept, godless silence; pray, pray, I am prey.

That was it, wasn't it?
An exclamation point to a run-off
sentence; we refused.
She'll pray to the gods
We'll later become
And I'll never sip on something pristine as
Lavender tea lemonade.

She said the stars converse as we do.
Shining. Laughing. Slowly dying.
I'll go to your back, then your head to my chest.
Hearing you: softening
Jabs to whispers.
There, a heavy light settled along the edge
Of our spot, our unencumbered field of obsidian
And crafted blades of grass.

Of all the things I can be,
I can't be the last to go.

I threaded the lyrics of my soul's last song
with a string of your actions.

My dear, you've muted me.

The indecisive grey is a casualty of the black and white war.

Hope loves to play.
She hides her essence in the smiles of strangers.
Approach her, end the game.
Then share what's been found with the time spent seeking.

Absolute Objectivity does not exist.

Fed selfishness, become consumed.
Starve selfishness, become sated.

Humility sets the stage for learning
And wisdom gained, through acts of earning.
No role forced, none strung to play.
No certain applause, none forced to stay.
No knowledge will steady a wavering hand.
No strength to those with a dependent stand.
No yearning for truth demands concerning
When humility sets the stage for learning.

Where's the edge in your rhyme schemes?
No wedge between my time and my themes.

You make cents while you don't make sense,
play dense when you mistake tense.
In my defense,
I expend to no end, at no expense.
Hide intense behind offense,
a generic's scend is too immense.

Son of sin, son of suns and runes.
Father of win, father of puns and tunes.

Toss them into the pit!

That babbling **** who twitches
on the side of the local gas station,
who talks
as if he had company!

The girl with obvious scars
across her thighs and arms,
it's her fault for not seeking help;
she does this to herself!

Freak! who writes poetry
and speaks with words
that force me to pick up
effort and a dictionary!

*****! he is not a man, not even to his
lover, he makes her feel respected and
on equal plane! he even fights
for gay rights, for the animals near-extinct!

Let the helpless and the helpful,
the hopeless and the hopeful
suffer, not by
each other,
but
by
themselves.

And we, with years of
practice, of
earned
ignorance
can enjoy the scene
from the tops of
our immoral high horses.

I think, often. Maybe too often.
I think you're scared of me.
I think you're skeptical of the good in things.
And up until you met me, I know you've had every reason to be.

I think we're all monsters, and that humanity is history's great facade.
I think we're all scrambling to find salvation.
And I think I've found mine in pen strokes dedicated to you.

I think, I think, I think...
And with you no longer by my side, I always will think.

When someone you love begs you to leave.

Creating a tsunami with the skips of a pebble.

The second before every mistake.
The seconds within every moment.
The second after every made-memory.

Empty chairs at empty tables.

The realization that we're all sets of stories.

How to justify wrinkles underneath the eyes.

A *****.

The most valuable good.

(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)

At the break of her ego's regard,
invite insight --in slight, reveal
a glimpse of past, the skin of real:
the scarred survivor turned cautious bard.

Let her wonder, let her ask,
then let her outline your mask.
Let her hands combat the task
of pains that guard passion's cask

as her reach exposes chest,
thieve her strength, become her nest.

Be the moon, she: the sun,
chase the path of day and night,
****** duel outright:
bite her bullets, strip the gun.


And when your cask has been unsealed
feign fear, hesitate --be revealed.

Oddly enough, my first conversation with God (I call, for lack of it's true name) came as I began dating a non-believer. I recognized the voice, so I carried along,

She's onto something.
Think so?
Know so. She's onto something all of you should know.
How many of us do know?
Not nearly enough.
A great deal then, that I want nothing but all of her.
And think.. what to want, when you lose her?
I'd prefer not to ponder.

Our second came as any might expect. I took to the call,

Hey. Floating around still? How's the kids?
Humor is a fine coping mechanism.
Oh no, just the opposite.
I didn't believe I'd need to know. I didn't want to. You know?
I know.

The third came a year after,*

Is it too late to give my answer?
When is it ever too late for answers?
Never and always.
After it all, I really just don't know.
But I want to, and the world as my partner I will try to.
I don't think knowing is the point, you know?
I know. And it's splendid that you think so.
Now tell me, what is it you want for yourself?
You know, I don't know.
I thought so.

And right before the silence returned (as it always does), I could've swore I heard a whisper...

He's onto something.

I never liked the sun
how it suggests one can be both
bright and above things;
how time is measured
through a predictable presence;
how humanity projects unto
a divinity that eludes
itself.

When will
the three eyes
see the light
within?

I never liked sunburns,
how submission leaves a red sting.

(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)

Notice, nod, smile
make strange worth her while.

Stand, wink, wave
break poise,
misbehave.

Give first free of charge
and by last; indemnify.
Attain room without barge
-wend, strain, stratify.

Come to go,
the flux tastes
of salt and iron.

I? Then, a  
bitter-flavored fool.

Yet by moment
decide, oh Epitome,
that a stillness should
live, red and violet,
against
my threshold obsidian:
Let that selfishness wend.

I, now apathy
and you to wither.