How peculiar it is,
all that we keep alive with our thoughts.
I wonder,
whether it is as photosynthesis is to the plant
and a flower is yet to bloom,
or whether our faces will become blue
in the name of fallacy.

Think wisely.

words elude my breaking sight,
dream, and dreams of forms
bear might.
built and forged upon the light, now -
it fails, consumed by night.

aloof the babe at mother breast,
forged a world, upon its flesh.
lines and form, subdued in sense,
amorphous matter - cracked and rent.

are true the words, which mask seeming?
or void held gaze, and lack of dreaming?
a man, a man, in restless slumber,
context born of lust and hunger.

can we see, a world past sight?
strip away the egos might?
a star, a star, throws out its light,
grasping for
the endless night.

I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.

Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.

Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.

There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom  
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.

Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.

worth is not in my vocabulary,
I am without it.
there is no worth around me,
no value or importance.
leaving myself to believe
that worth is just a construct.
I will not focus on it,
for I am utterly useless.
holding on to anything
that will get me through the day,
nothing that contains worth.
there is no point in the world,
yet I am still searching for it.

the men end lunch with strands of glowing spit
webbed to the tips of their boots.
they huddle and coagulate, chanting as one,
then bloom with loud whispers into
heat and steel beam ******* meat to the city grid.

my father once stepped on a nail.
he turned yellow
& his leg disintegrated.

I invest too many hours creating scenes with words bigger than my imagination. Articulating a grand scheme of vividly painted phrases sculpting the workings of a surreal scenario. Practicing pristine implementation of descriptive speech for God-like abilities to plant emotion. Patiently calculating the steps from beginning to eternity; from birth to infinity.

The deconstruction and reconstruction, razing and elevating, of rewrites cycle through an incessant reel. Connecting bits of frames with no correlation and binding their frayed edges to author an insatiable, perfectly disorganized, cinema streaming through cracks of my consciousness. Hinting at the exception; drawing my attention from the tangible existence before me.

The sun spies on the city and burns under its gaze.
Blushing
Workers bake in the heat of the day while constructing a new site for the sick. Their shrill drills bust up loose chunks of gravel and dirt, releasing an abundance of debris that surf the breeze. A lucid hummingbird soars beyond the commotion.
So sudden.
It towers over skyscrapers with a youthful heart, emulating the shivering helicopter that slashes the sky above.
How rewarding that bird’s life must be to have sustained through its years with a heart like a jackhammer, steadily bashing against its ruby *****. The overwhelming core within its fragile, willow form strives to move, to breathe, to swiftly drain nectar from budding botanicals.
What a satisfying life, so rich, so fulfilling. And yet-
Exhausting
Like pressed petals amid pages, its wings begin to tear.
Struggling
And for once, its jackhammer begins to falter. Has it been granted a break? Perhaps it could be a reward for its burden? Alas, it stops, mid-flight.
Falling
Falling
To
Float.
To
Transition
To
Be
Still
Meanwhile, workers below the smog consider their watches for break. The resonating sound of that aching jackhammer goes unnoticed.

Even concrete breaks under pressure

"As we build our Earth, we are also destroying it"

Time is a social construct,
constricting us to certain hours
and denying us the potential magic of others.