This twelve year old boy decides
to ****** the syllables and sounds.
Define leisure.
The crowd shutters at
The voice of the voiceless.
Static gazes shoot across the
graffiti living upon the
livingless.

Leisure just means fun.
This twelve year old boy studies
the maroon leaf hinged on a thread
of silk--
of beauty.
Strands of life occupy his mind
with ounces of doubt
and pints of disbelief;
For threads will break
and beauty will fail.

The buses leave in 2 minutes.
Hurry up!
This twelve year old boy waits
for the end of perseverance;
The burning sensation that crawls
along the inner thigh.
Long live the thread…

Find your partner for the nature walk.
This twelve year old boy
observes the confines of the schoolbus
for the remaining human scraps.
His eyes meet with Jason’s
Deep, silky hazel eyes.
He walks behind Jason while
pinching the edge of his hoodie.

Remember to be back in 10 minutes.
This twelve year old boy ventures into
the small crevice of the forest
in search of a place to call home.
Jason grins at the sight of
Squirrels scurrying through the falling
leaves and shifting sunlight.
Jason inquires,
What are you looking for?
I’m looking for leisure.
Jason couldn’t help but let out
this chuckle that causes bushes to
Shudder.

Start making your way back to the bus.
This twelve year old boy shakes
at the quickness of Jason’s turn.
This twelve year old boy stares at
the formulation of sweat on Jason’s forehead.
Jason drops his eyes onto his slightly pursed
lips and propels his head.
This twelve year old boy remembers
the perseverance of a leaf and feels the delicate,
fragile threads wrap around his body.
This twelve year old boy fears
the dangers of this exotic love.
The body of this twelve year old boy trembles as
Jason’s face grows closer and closer.
This twelve year old boy drops his eyelids
to relax every bone in his body.
This twelve year old boy lets go of the
aching apprehension. Jason locks his lips along
the face of this twelve year old boy to
extract the void out of the abyss living within.
Jason wouldn’t stop his extraction until the beating
of his heart matched with his.

Stiff coagulant limbs
unknown
to the capabilities
of a terminal pulse with a grim,
unfortunate smile
that screams “I miss you”
or utters “come in”
or whispers “I loved you” while
flailing their arms to hide
the shadows that creep
onto the tip of their spine
to meet its bride
with a purple face
full of triumph without disdain
with delicate limbs
willing to brace
for the impact crashing through
the joints and bones and flesh
floating like confetti
at the sound of a coo
called deceit.

It's never dark in newark, the ruddy sickly glow of money spent keeps us safe from night
We used to depend on her, her white light reflections was our protection from fear and wonder

I remember the old back road I used to drive--
the one that connected my house to yours
with the abrupt boom of green mountainside, fog
clinging in patches above the evergreen

awning, and the old pine reaching far higher
than the rest--a monument to the trees
growing steady in your eyes. I haven’t
forgotten how your irises, only saplings,

drowned in the flood of ‘06 as the Delaware
crawled over the bank and into your head.
I never knew what to make of your
ripple-warped, water-stained fears crashing

rampant as the broken **** that swallowed
Church Street. They reminded me of tangled thorns,
my fingers scarred from moonlit attempts to smooth
needle-edged guilt as you repeated to me:

I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault, I should have known.
You told me how you knew I would, too, wash away--
that’s just what people did after floods.