I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
and write about zen.
The world is all but one.

I pick up my pen.
                               ...or is it my gun?
I will find it soon then,
the war is all but won.

I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
I write about Jen and,
how war may lack fun.

Jen pick up her gun.
                                    ... it is surely not a pen.
my pen loses rhythm and so has the war
and the people who still fight all lose.
                                                                  In the end we will all lose...

I am holding a million and one words each tightly packed into my mouth yet
many small words are escaping, pouring from the sides of my lips, drenching the lower half of my face entirely.
I will wipe away the slipping residue and begin with calm,
only opening the entrance of description as to unclench my lips.
Jared, male, twenty-two.

These minimal words of black and white reach the ear plainly,
without impact.
Residue slips further,
more words of lesser color,
lesser impact, yet
the slightly slightly slightly more more more more invigorating colors release themselves in these bright forms of words,
descriptions,
explanations,
emotions.

He has ambition.
Ambition that can only be compared to the greats of history,
the psychotic,
the brave,
the colorful.
A juicy pink now fills my lips.
Jared has a heart that beats with caution, yet
when held close, fits into your hands like a newborn animal,
precious.
I tear up at every encounter with this one
this one psychotic,
brave,
colorful boy.
This one careful,
darling individual who yet could,
without flinching could extract apart every ****** limb of any breathing thing.

He stands,
a military posture, gazing.
He does not look away.
With shuffling your feet and nerves jumping because
you have only experienced this once by your least favored teacher,
the opposing end of a power dynamic too intimating to overcome,
who was evaluating the proper level of punishment.
Punishment?

He already knows who you are yet you batter and batter and batter into your head what this boy is.
Some seconds pass by and yet
the same three words;
Jared, male, twenty-two,
patter like a ****** advertisement through your mind
until he is telling you a story;
his venture on the mountain of Mount Fuji and amid a monsoon in which he would have,
should have,
died.

And you listen,
attentively.
And he does not stop talking
and you do not stop listening
and you have hiked nine miles
and you realize the sun has set
and you are not where you started
and those three words have been forgotten
and you are walking in 11pm darkness.
Attentitive, at his side.

I've never quite known how to describe love.
Somewhere between an unsettling ease crashing against a deep sense of belonging.
The constant beating of the waves making me unsteady.
I don't quite know how to navigate these seas.

A masterful captain at everything else.
I find myself unable to instruct my own footsteps.
It's a feeling of suffocation mixed with rising excitement.
The thought of you sends my mind into overdrive.

I'm not safe to do nothing else, but meditate on you.
In that moment when your name crosses my mind or comes into earshot, I am ruined for any task I have busied myself with.

And when we finally meet, your face shines more radiant than anything else, throwing me completely of balance only to be caught by the nets of your touch.

I suppose the only thing I know is that I'm falling in love with you...

When I see you,
My heart breaks apart
Not because of your looks
but because of your dark heart

Distancing yourself,
As I approach
Those little actions
to evade me
Shunning my views
And talking over me

Going the extra mile
To help others succeed
But not me
Leaving me behind
As if mocking me

Playing down my successes
Inflating others' victory
Leaving me in the dark while you stand in publicity

The skin renews every 28 days. It’s been 16 since you last touched mine. I don’t know if I can go 12 more watching your finger prints fade.

Like a moth
blinded by such froth
wished to touch the flame.
Wrapped with swath
Burnt wings dropped the cloth
Time to take the blame...

That monk in the refectory
sitting there
reminded me

of old Jack:
same look,
same eyes,

that quiet presence.
The French peasant monk,
cutting back

the hedgerow
with a scythe,
black robed,

tonsured,
humble as cheese,
nods and bows.

I picked apples wrong
in the orchard,
the monk said,

he showed how,
his fine fingers
twisted just so,

feminine,
pinkish nails,
his dark tight curls

untonsured.
For whom the bells toll
down to the sea and beach?

I tossed stones
across the incoming tide,
further

than Brother Hugh
(moaning Myrtle)
could reach.