She has innumerable scenarios in her mind but you are her favorite
She's drifting by your smile and simple hello's and then her words are lost
She wonders about your thought and the difference between fantasy and reality
She always see tons of ways to find fondness in you
She doesn't want to gamble her feelings for something unsure yet caught herself lost in the idea of you
Though for a moment she's stuck in the delusion of being with you
She tries to stray from the illusion of loving you.

-Steph Dionisio, October 06, 2015

I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.

He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)

Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.

Girl in black masquerade gown with books balanced on head

One high-heeled foot on drum

The other

A laceless sneaker


Long-stemmed glass of wine in right hand

Slim bottle of Summum ***** in left


Background dissonance


Vintage grey vehicle with red interior

PYT seated in the back

Tatted up bad boy in front seat

Bearded man in tailored blue suit

Hand draped over driver's seat door


Red carpet rolled out to the entrance of a dive bar

that leads into a mansion

Eyes Wide Shut

My voice is louder than the amphetamines that pump through my system,
Like a myriad of violins,
preaching on a soapbox.
Surrounded by self-proclaimed writers,
who control their mindless devotions with their pen to paper.
They believe,
not only in themselves,
but in the system.
They don't challenge what's really happening,
and is instead,
hazed by propaganda.

I am told that confidence is one thing,
and being self sufficient is another.
But i think they amalgamate to each other,
like the rivers do in my head.

We wonder,
what if the dust on the moon really is acidic?
what do we do then?

I give my money to my hierarchy above,
and I challenge what really is happening.

Love was always temporary,
quick, suspect with others
but then I met you.

You taught me how to sound it out,
how to count its syllables,
how to hold my pencil and write it.

I guess now I understand
why we are still on the first letter.

and they asked me about you.

I taught them the color of your eyes
and how to spell your name,

I taught them the importance
of August 8th and October 1st,

and reminded them about the time
that even the All-Knowing

miscalculated your worth.

The nightly news suggested that my clan and friends
and poetry and me gather all of our things
and evacuate the city but because my folk
are people in the margin, people in financial

strain shaped by oppression, I have - instead - loaded things
and bodies into a single caravan and am
en route to you because you are smoother and longer
and stronger, taller than the tallest road in the world.

In my mind, you have become the road; a road whose peak
is 18,000 feet, a road whose place is between
the East and West, a road whose beginning has no end
and a road whose end has no beginning - none at all.

Heavy rain. Flood water. High wind, the weatherman said.
For years, I have been compelled to take this road, to ride
its curves with finesse, to drift in a single gear for
miles, to go and go and go on the smoothest road 'round.

For years, I have been compelled to take this road, to be
elevated at 18,000 feet - yes, to be
transported closer to heaven, to be and be and
be on the longest, strongest, tallest road in the world.

En route, an elderly man asked me, Why her, young man, why
her? I shifted gears. Accelerated up a hill
of you and said, Because she has exceeded all things.
Exceeded what, young man, exceeded what? Do tell. Do.

All other roads and passageways, the labyrinth of
life, everything, sir, everything.

And how do you know we will survive along this road?
he asked.

Because no matter the point of origin, so long
as we are on the road of her, there will be fields whose
crops are plenty - always in season, brooks whose water
never recoils, and rivers of milk that do not spoils.

and that's it.

Today, more than
yesterday.

Today, less than
tomorrow

and that's it.

The soil recognizes
the vibration of your
soft soul and soft soles
when you walk around
the garden's edge.

Grounds from every corner
of the world hasten
to be underneath your feet.

Twenty dignified, upright,
and humble footsteps
from the lilies
to carnations

and much of the earth
is covered.

Do not leave me
not even for a day.

For a day is long,
difficult to understand

and one without you
exhausts me.