the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.  

cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.

and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.

I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?

who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?

nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.

it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.

there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.

drip,
drip,
drip,

all over the page.

born from a splitting
ache in the back-left of my head
like a drill bit whirring in an empty paint can.

i'd give you pearls for hands my love,
ever-winter washing over our foaming cerulean eyescapes.  

inside your drums I hear
a pulse that cries for
hips and thorns entangled
under your
navel.  

one more summer breath from lung to lung
exchanged
under moonlight for the promise of elevation.  
you are not
who you say you are
my dear - you are a
future memory
stalking sweetly today under the guise
of novel pleasure , but time will
reveal your skin to me
under the electric lavender
of my
eyelids.

you are wood grain
and strata -
born too, it seems, from a splitting.

The devil rides the tomb of our thoughts,
       only to hold us back from intentions

       that cleave even at his morality.



"We are always much darker that the devil
               on our shoulder, he holds us back,

When do petals lose their gentle sway?
When do they detach
And begin to float away?
What sort of pressures
Cause it's smoothness to fray?
Dryed and roughened,
Weakened and flayed.

When do petals begin to fall?
Into a world of dirt and decay...
Soon after, when is it,
That they crumble and break?
Laying on a horizon strewn,
With vague silhouettes and
Unfamiliarity.

And if after, the petal gathers itself,
When is it, that it is raised into the sky,
Into a familiar unfamiliar atmosphere?
When is it that the petal loses itself,
And in its emptiness,
Tears at its own soul profusely?
Elevated high
Into the expansive, empty sky
Away and away
From any natural warmth
And cleaved apart from any stability.

Because...
The petal,
When it lays back against the wind,
The image of freedom it always imagined,
Was actually
A prison.

The Hadid
in weekend
plans this
plane that'll
easily shake
takeoff as
they'll break
the news
and flash
zesty Yolanda
that only
her celebs
were finally
gathered in
the Paparazzi
will trump
West Hollywood.