It’s all about texture, cracks on the dried up leather
where you curl up and and bury yourself, it’s all about the way your skin moves around your bones
how far you can touch your toes
like details crashing, instant passing
we glance and look over those cracks, scars, stains, lines, scratches, anything that makes us human, anything that pulls the paint farther across the canvas than smears it up and down with angry finger prints
we are reaching out with red or pale marks, purple dust that turns into mountains
you work with the colors you are given but you build texture
you create movement
you discover what makes you, you
Flower bloom/ Flower forever blooming
Flower always bloomed/ Flower never blooms
Flower functions like the skin soaking, soapy
Dough skin slipping, like dehydrated petals
Falling from torn green legs, limp to much
****** dusty hands pretending we are
Forever, always bloom(ing)ed
Because that’s what we want, to
Be unknown green grass drying in the sun
Bubble gum was
A past time favorite, smacking lips, sugar kiss
Teeth warming up to ******* tongues, licks
Of whistled no you can’t do that, **** in
Pop! Tripped bubbles, blow onetwothree
Inside each other and then Bam
Bam Bam, the bad man is head over heels
For the girl with pink lips, licking sticky
Bubble gum crumbs off her skin.
And you say we always win; winner-winner
Chicken dinner for two or three or
Just you; a lone loner is alone;
It’ll be okay pink bubbles, one after another,
They’ll keep coming your way.
I don’t care about the set of patients with high blood pressure
Or finding the number of people who did not have exactly two of the indications listed: patients with high blood pressure, patients with high cholesterol, or patients who smoke cigarettes.
I couldn’t careless that three circles make up this (venn)-diagram
And that you must start in the center,
Nothing good will come from me knowing that 46 people have high cholesterol when I don’t even know how to fix them. They’re all made up anyway.
I won’t obtain anything from sitting in a cold classroom, listening to a student hack up his lungs because he’s over 50 and still threading smoke through his lungs; he probably has all three problems.
All I do is poke and **** at time that moves so slowly
And exchange ideas with my fingers, ignoring calculator instructions and written kindergarten numbers
Hoping the day stays young and my eyes stay open
This is by far the best moment I can recall, besides the ones when I’m with you.
I hope this will become a favorite past time,
When my child looks at me
Asking how I felt when I was 19,
I’d say pretty **** well;
For I sit on my bed after my alarm sound, class would be calling in 45 minutes.
I spend most of my mornings alone, thumbing through past words exchanged or written poems still hungry to be edited.
I blanket my legs
And wear his sweat shirt
With a coffee mug sitting on my left thigh, my four fingers curled around the handle. I can still feel the heat of it all.
This is by fair my favorite moment when I’m not around him, because I have just woken from a dream and my eyes are still heavy with sleep but the caffeine seems to be digging its way through my blood stream.
The air conditioning sounds remind me of a hotel and if I close my eyes I can smell the ocean.
But the coffee, I’ll taste through my English class
As I adore my professors ways,
Thinking it feels pretty **** good
To be nineteen.
You’re indifferent to time and space;
You look at the stars and know that God doesn’t exist
But you don’t argue with organized religion,
You don’t even bash it.
Your lips are pale but your face is red,
You’re always calm and coughing, always
Waiting for coffee or tea.
You feel the weight of your bones, and sometimes
It terrifies you, I can tell
Because you kiss me harder when reality is drifting
Away from you. But when you feel like 1,000
Pounds you gently press your lips
To my forehead. You tip toe across the earth
Scared your foot print will be too permanent
For the wrong reason.
And I often find you digging through
Words, puzzled, and asking why
The universe is shaped like a cheerio,
You leave me with possible facts like
Ghosts are just sounds humans shouldn’t be able to hear
And then I wonder why you are afraid of the dark
You’re not a smoker,
You may buy packs of cigarettes
And even own a few lighters, but your
Lips do not curl the way smoker’s lips do
You do not **** in the smoke with a death wish
Nor do you enjoy the thick air slowly threading
It’s way through your lungs.
You might find yourself holding one like a smoker
But you do not have ash stained fingernails;
You do not cough like a smoker
You do not inhale nor do you need one more
After you finished your last one.
You’re not a smoker,
You’re fingers do not lack hope
They are not broken or fading away
They are not yellow and they are
Definitely not grey.
They seem to be alive,
Very much alive.