You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.*

Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines?  Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.

Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.

Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ***-*** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

'Time is a created thing,"
so it's my fault I'm waiting
for work. One thing I need
to surgically remove from
my head is the idea that
being at work is like talking
on the phone all day because
someone has told you to,
while life keeps calling on
the other line and you're
too busy to answer. I get
sad often. I go to bed sad,
wake up sad, feel alright
at points throughout the
day (depending), return
home, feel sad, and
wonder if the 't' in
'satisfied' could be
replaced in my life.

'sad-isfied.'

if I'm not broken,
don't fix me.

When I die,
Leave your sorrows at home,
Wear your scarlet dress,
Meet me at the place where we met.
Not for the first time,
But where we really met.
Where I fell in love with you.
Hold your red rose in hand.
Summon me unto the promise land.

When you feel alone,
Just put on your scarlet dress.
And know that I am there,
Staring at you with yearning in my eyes,
As I did in my time with you.

Eventually,
Let the red morph to your skin,
And know its my fingers
Flowing throw your hair,
That most would mistake for the wind.

Let the scarlet bleed into your heart,
Not from it.
So that I may inhabit the only place,
That I could have described as heaven.

Promise me that you'll wear your scarlet,
When summer ends,
So that when fall arrives,
The scarlet will come alive in the trees,
And I can be with you,
As long as you take the time,
To admire the beauty of the changing leaves,
As I had many autumns ago.

The feeling of your words on my skin,
Is so addicting,
I feel your words corse through my body,
And mend with my white blood cells,
As if a cancer that'd I wouldn't dare treat.
The consonants settle in my fingers and toes,
And the vowels and "Q" go straight to my lips,
Making me virtually speechless,
As I jabber gibberish and tongues.
I feel your verbs in my limbs,
Like an energy that makes me seem supernatural.
I see your nouns float from your mouth,
And sink to the ground,
In order of relevancy from closest to farthest.
I hear your adjectives chirp,
Like songbirds at dawn,
And I whistle back,
Just so I can hear their reply.

coffee burns lungs, cigarette smoke, don't
lie. Black Folgers tastes like cigarette smoke.
Stars and visions of blank black back-then
haunt neurons, twitch tears. The *******
lights and the gaudy bulb, who thought this
was a good idea? Thomas Edison ruined the
world so no thanks to Thomas Edison. I'd
rather sleep on a dark-world night-time
than a bright-world all-time.  

the grass-is-greener syndrome, Paris syndrome,
I-exist-syndrome for the love of lavender lungs
syndrome, suicide sounds as scary as life when
you scream loud enough, that's true confinement.
Jail-time on Earth. I don't believe this, why do
I think like the devil? Can I blame it on Adam
or whatshisname?

misty day if she mistakes her
lens for the world. every breath
elects new particles to the surface
of her sun. every now and again
she twitches in sleep and it's like
electric dream time spits seconds
in hours. hours in minutes. minutes
in mine. once in awhile she wakes
to stroke my back or my arm and
if holy moments are all the time, us
together float the illusion of Maya
away to be here. I look in her eyes
and tell her were just God playing
hide-and-seek. she nuzzles my nose
like a sweater cat and speaks. a
multiplicity uncorks the wine and
tells us to dance. I'm dancing. Keep
dancing.