we’re all just spinning
around and around
while conducting a
beautiful symphony
on the record of life
so more often than not,
take it out of the package,
drop the needle down
and play it
play it with tangled fire
play it with bewilderment
play it with combing intimacy
play it with disastrous surrender
play it with drunken obedience
play it with abrupt movements
play it with poisoned impulses
play it with determined heroism
play it with elegant patterning
play it with oceans of grace
play it with fantasy and grief
play it with sublime generosity
play it with fine love and sugarcane
play it perfectly ugly
play it rotten like the mystic fish
play it while your waiting
because when the needle ends
there is nothing left
except the spine chilling
nightmare of silence
and crackling static
and
that
is
it.

big mess
big miss
emptiness, emptiness

a big mess grows
all the places emptiness goes
can't always have a garden,
a flower garden
a  dancing kiss upon a fountain

two tiny feet standing on the fountain
two tiny feet, light as air
dancing on the fountain
where kiss on the cheek is a little unfair

i last saw you there
in pictures of what must have felt so weightless

could have been a little more gracious
not just some harmful acquaintance

sure as a black hole to fall through
moment i met you
doing nothing for you

king helpless child
my biggest miss
all the ways to my emptiness
emptiness
nowhere to go
i've been to the places emptiness goes
in this big mess that grows and grows

I’m a fool for all I’ve said
How I could never see through
But I knew from the start
It was too good to be true

For how was I to let go
With what was so good
Seeing visions of a new life
Under a summers moon

The most beautiful trap
The most devastating lie
For what I try to hold back
Only rips apart my pride

Now it’s a shame what’s to be
To watch you part
Tearing out the seems
Of my already tattered heart

But I happily let you proceed
I find the utmost comfort in it
I cannot be alone
For I am emotionally sick

Humorous as it is in sick way
I can’t help but feel removed
I can’t find the reasons
Why I have felt the way I do

As you continue away
As if you if never cared
Part of me is dying
As I return to despair

Does your darkness forecast shadows,
Lies arise like heat lighting statues,
Are the sharks circling our shallows,
Cause I'm bleeding, must be the answer.

Peripheral landscapes drape your gilded chatter,
Purple & pink horizons, summon laughter,
Your eyes are lightning speed patterns,
My clouds that follow, five miles per hour.

What in the world changes,
Can we live high on mountainsides,
Shut our door to the strangers,
Exist surrendering to the ocean tides.

My palette craves color,
Your canvas seeks attention,
My callused fingers are covered,
When your callous words are mentioned.

Sometimes my vision starts to vibrate
Back and forth,
Like the firmament of reality
Is ripping apart into dreams
And I wonder if one day it'll go
All the way
And I'll just zoom off into some strange bruise of blue
And purple-black
Heart attack

Reading HR on the wall
Thinking how far we have to fall
Feeling the pleasant rush of air
Run across my free cheeks

And I keep blinking,
Thinking that if I just want a little more
Push a little more
Maybe the word will crack open the rains of fortune
And whisk me away like an egg

Grinding my fingers against the tree,
Trying to eat at the bark
Like a little retard
But not so wrong, honestly.

I find more often than not
When I oft retreat into enclosed thought,
Stepping stones across the pond
Of reality,
I dream of something that could never be.

Like a stone,
Crashing into a celestial dome
Only a fraction of an inch
And destroying wholly
All things that called it home.

Clawing deep at wormword
Blood on fingers, blood and hand
To fall ever softly toward the beautiful
Damned
To some perfect miracle.

Your actions echo love,
My rendition of it;
Why don’t they linger
Like words will.

Your actions parade love
That I applaud;
Why can I not trust them
Unless I have it in print.

I write
Poems of love
For a man of few words.

I feel
Acts of love
For a writer, is it not enough.

When do we ever say we're over
With all the what if's and why
The sleepless nights
And the morning aches...

Is it the days you're okay,
Or is that just the thought of okay
But when that song is played,
Do you smile? or weakens you?

When was the last time you tell yourself "I'm done"
Was it done once? twice? thrice?
Or countless times?
When do we ever say we're over

Could it be forced?
Should it be now...