No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch

Burn a match for me,
A single, solitary light
Please, oh god, I need it
Strike it up against my side
It's what I live for,
Searching for the flame
A fuse at high noon,
Nowhere near the night.
You turn your head away,
and I wonder why you still refuse,
Though I beg and plead and crawl.
"Get off your knees," you say,
I only shiver and I fall.
All I ask is a tiny match,
One half-an-inch of flame,
Give it, bring it, feed it to me,
One spark that calls my name.

I invest too many hours creating scenes with words bigger than my imagination. Articulating a grand scheme of vividly painted phrases sculpting the workings of a surreal scenario. Practicing pristine implementation of descriptive speech for God-like abilities to plant emotion. Patiently calculating the steps from beginning to eternity; from birth to infinity.

The deconstruction and reconstruction, razing and elevating, of rewrites cycle through an incessant reel. Connecting bits of frames with no correlation and binding their frayed edges to author an insatiable, perfectly disorganized, cinema streaming through cracks of my consciousness. Hinting at the exception; drawing my attention from the tangible existence before me.

So much emphasis on time.
We spend our lives counting time.
Rolling wheels to the next road sign.
Yet we sometimes forget.
*That its all in our minds

Beauty
Radiates from your diamond like
Oval eyes as they look upon the
World, giving it's many facets
New meaning with each glance.

Everyone that knows
Your eyes can feel the
Elation of being at peace with
Death now that they have looked into the gates of heaven.

Gazing into them causes deep
Introspection because seeing your own
Reflection through such a perfect orb
Leaves you wondering what you could have been.

More Structure, Bald Nature.
Intelligences without a Heart of Conscience.
Lost in the battle of Negligence.

.                      *
                            The
                            Xyr-
                       ­    -esic
                   Steel of justice
             Real and unfogiving
                        Cutting
                        through  
                        Foes  of
                        The thr-
                       -one pro-
                       - tecting
                        Friends
                        F­orever
                        presev -
                        -ing pe-
                          -ace
                             .

The lower back arches
Muscles tangle in with the spine
And intertwining curvature sneaks between vertebras
Creating a vineyard of sweet spirits
That I could drink from the palms of your hands

As though the gentle and rough intentions
Had forever been engraved in a fate
That the universe hadn’t even planned for it
Otherwise the circumstances wouldn’t have been

And so foolish, I looked onward to the lit pavement
Walking between the crowd in hopes that
The grasping of my soul would stop from being tortured
In ways so tender that I wish I could expand in to the millions of atoms I am

Your skin felt like a warm liquid
That washed over your bones structure
Your eyes, those brown eyes
That looked at me with a shine that
I wasn’t sure if everyone else could see
And the light freckles and tinges of skin tone
Pixelated the platform of your body
And I, could look at you forever
Without even thinking twice about tomorrow

Not all bridges are made of wood,
you tell me,
when I ask you why you have not yet
set fire to the pathway
that connects us

Some of the ugliest structures
are the ones that last the longest-
the ones where you can see the insides
and there is no masking
the wear and tear
of years of rain and wind and snow

Eventually,
those structures become landmarks,
pieces of importance

I realize that our structure
is by far, the ugliest,
and I hate it every time I see it

but I will not remove it