I dream of golden nooses
And oak, glided chairs,
And a sick man shriveled up and
Wasted away shivering on top
Of a rain-soaked rooftop
With rosary in his hands
Squeezing one last prayer out
Of his blueish lips
Before heading back down
Into his bedroom.

Chinese characters tattooed
Sloppily on the
Stark white cement walls,
Words for death and dying men,
And mercy and God,
Paintbrush dipped in bright red—
Red is the Chinese color of prosperity.
Gilded gold and cedar the American one.

In frustration at the hollowness
Of his Midas touch,
At the way his hands grasp the
Cross of Jesus only for it
To turn gold in scorn,
He screams.

In anger seizes the
Rosary around his wrists
And snaps it on

His neck.

Round and around
to the beat of the sound.
Smaller and smaller
circles bend together.

Words will go to war
The effect on me is bore.
Meaningless fighting
I end up laughing.

From correction publication
to abdominal muscle saturation,
I can't I can't, please I laugh,
my throat, my throat, it's like a giraffe.

Twenty five thousand, maybe a couple hundred,
the Wind puff on the roots, they're as good as dead,
bending towards the weight behind you,
giving within seconds too.

Rain, hail, sleet, and snow
Obviously no evidence of so called "Growth."
Not to mention impossible under
circumstances of watered fertilizer.

Now it's endless net jabbing
and a matter of quickly forgetting.
Living assignments, requirements, deadlines, and submission,
done for days, nothing left to say, I recluse to intermission.

These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.

you were thunder and i was the ocean,
i wrote poetry about forest fires,
you said i tasted like detergent and
blue roses, i keep asking the shooting stars
to explode but they won’t leave without
the moonlight, it’s been four years since
you said i tasted like the universe
wild, dark, out of control and
free to do
whatever i want