I wish flowers
would go extinct
if only for a day,
from both the earth
and my memory,
just so I can pluck these
thorny comparisons
from out my poems.

And while we're there,
sunrises can also take the boot
with their predictable
eastern risings and
western settings,
intrusive summer heat,
and their connection to
the feminine glow.

Why not try
rising in the north
and setting in the south,
dare to relate yourself
to the screech of a car?

Don't get me started
on the diverging
roads and your
forked choices
or a bustling stage
you call your
world.

I want to lean
on over to Andromeda,
and see what kind of
terrain they have,  
weave my words
based on their cold suns,
that are actually called
moons or flubberdygoo,
that never set and
mimic the sounds
of migrating birds.

Or maybe peek
on over to Neptune
with her five rings and
get a better idea
of the color blue
and how wind can
actually feel like
seduction.

Because my dear
however lovely
your lips truly are,
I can no longer go
forward relating them
to the red rose nor
compare our
premature parting
to the setting sun.

I remember fondly
when you asked me
if I knew French before
our first dinner date.

I lied and said yes,
just to hear the
sparkle in your tone.

I lied and said yes,
just to see the smile
from your face
vanish when
I confronted you
with an obvious truth,

to see if you felt
embarrassed by
your misplaced lust,
or at ease with your
perpetual enstatement of it.

as you slowly realized,
it wasn't me you
were chasing,
but maybe a cute
Parisian girl
in a striped turtleneck
eating a croissant,
under some beige canopy
who vaguely resembles me,

And while you were sitting
there wondering of that girl,
I easily slipped into
my Marie Antoinette accent
so I can practice it on you.

"serious art is born from serious play"
Julia Cameron

The problem with artists
is the way they look
at you as if
you're their
next meal.

You were never
flesh and bone,
a creature of feel.

You are a blank canvas
of space to roam,
the layered onion
for them to peel.

The unchartered map
left to explore,
until you are all but conquered
and turned into words on a page.

But when two artists meet,
I wonder if their agendas
dance with each other like
the bull and a matador.

one waving a red flag at the other
enticing the other to make a move,
and discover just how well
they can defend themselves

or if they both
bow in submission
in accordance to the laws of
"meeting your match."

or do they toggle back and forth
between bow and blow,
arching the horns into the
air with independent defiance

to kneeling their heads
into the sand with
doted reverence.

just two chemicals dancing
and inching around one another,
questioning whether
or not to form
a compound.

To not
know whether you
are black with white stripes
or white with black stripes

carry on without a mirror to investigate
or a care for that matter,
for nature has embedded
the answers into your veins.

the code of your creation,
of your knowing
is buried in the silence
in between your thoughts.