i pick, wash, slice
the orange and
    lift a slice towards
my
                         lips

chewing on the
flesh that is sweet
with great ambition
and pulp, taking
my mind to
hot summer
                            days

then my teeth
sinks into the
harsh reality
that inhabits
the
                    rind

                                      ­         fibrous strands hang in my teeth-
         so annoying-      
so frustrating-
so bitter-                  

slipping  down to my innards
down              
down                  
  down                          
    
                                             my fingers are                    together
                                 ­                         sticking    
                           ­                                 

          
but i won't be
disheartened
for i hold the
slice and squeeze
              and
      after
a      
time              
my tongue is        
kissed by

                           the last                of juice
                            drops
                         ­     the best                 of juice

the                of knowledge that I ingest with
drops                                                      
                                                                                           age

i can hardly wait
to sleep in the grass.
rewrite a love song and
call it a night.

if only i could
see myself on stage
maybe we could skip
right to the part
where we win.

i couldnt believe
she left her favorite
song for something new.
maybe im no good
for an addict.
just here to speed
up the process.

id even dance
if thats what it took.
or maybe im a colorful
frame of reference.
how bad can it really be?

or maybe ive swam
too deep in the water
again. it wouldnt be the
first time i fell without
a place to land.

we could start as friends
or die as lovers.
or maybe even both
if we play our cards wrong.

i am stuck in a
tangerine dream.
a breath of fresh air
or just air
that seems fresh
to me.

red face
quilled with ice cold
water.

there is only beauty
between the cracks
of contrast.

//

i cant call myself
a poet
if i dont tell you
that her lips
look soft.

they could heal me
like a bandaid
and hurt just as much
to peel off.

it doesnt feel like
virginia yet.
maybe only
vermont
or conneticut.

but im ready
to go home
if home feels
like it used to.