"I fear of having my turbulent waves crash down upon you. I fear of having my chaos entangle you in it’s mess. I fear my darkness enwrapping, engulfing and entrapping you in it’s depths. I fear of leaving you bewildered by the cryptic words that slip my tongue."
- excerpt from an open letter
the brain and mind are not the same thing.
a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.
it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.
the mind has no such manuals.
it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.
it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.
it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.
the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;
hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.
away from people who haven’t quite learned,
that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
they say mind over matter. but mind is the matter. it matters to the creaks at 4 am and the cries in the bathroom stalls.
9 126.96.36.199 25.15.21 10.5.14.9.6.1
My love, this love for you in my heart,
It is the real truth of my life.
Whatever may come in this way or ours,
You must become my wife.
Our religions may just be poles apart,
But our hearts play the romantic fife.
Always remember it 10.5.14.9.6.1, 9 188.8.131.52 25.15.21.
My HP Poem #1744
it was all tendons;
an eyeful of baleful beating heart.
the grinding of bone on bone,
cymbals against the bloodlust melody.
rorschach in the red sheen.
kandinsky on the wall.
a crime of passion, they called it.
passion in the hartman hemisphere
and confidence in the nowak nerves.
da vinci in the veins; decorum.
and when the night air warms
with a rust colored sky,
my finger paintings brighten with shades of red.
see you in hell, darling
Breadth of the summer's call,
Whisper your trying tales.
May yet I sit and wail,
At this season's juxtaposed quall.
Even though, be it over,
It's leeching tendrils reach as far,
As the wind hung sail,
To only fly me closer,
To this young mind's veil.
With these unknowns
These powder bones
Slip across't each other
Just to miss their mark.
Ready for the coming seasons
In no particular order
The sun comes up at different times of day.
The moon really is my best friend anyway
Because you're the one who watches over my dreams every day.
Apparently the thoughtfulness that I escribe
Unto these phantom pages coule magnificence readyness.
But they're kind of just random mots that somehow convey the way I feel at the time.
It doesn't even have to make sense.
But it always does in the end.