Tepid times, as the grass,
Covered in little, tiny
Dew drops, sways in
The hot wind of
The orange summer sky
I run my red tinted fingers
On your sticky warm face
In the almost dead
Vegetation
I close my eyes
Feeling the heat coat me
As your hand
Slips from mine
For you were just a
*Mirage

"Siri, I love you."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Would you like me to search the web for 'wine dot'?"

black storms rage in his eyes

fierce, frightening dust devils

making silent apocalyptic statements  

while searching for identity

recording the sound of color

black, white, red, green, blue

experiencing a drift of thought

as if floating in a dream

menaced suddenly by vowels

distorted, disconnected in delirium

he perceives a frequency in the air

like disturbed hidden speech

or a dream that cannot find

its alternative

and whose function it is

to study drug wasted features

of a skeletal torso

or to recall the unrelieved

immobility of time and place

to write the color of sound

tactile touching

a severed caress

a withered arrangement

the sort that belongs

to an abstract expressionist painting

suspended for all time

like a contemplated constrictor

who has asked

why he wishes to split

his personality in three

but has been denied an answer

instead gazes upon the

disunity of his vision