English countryside rolls
by like butter on banana
pancakes. The heat of
history keeps me cringing
with a full stomach. Aches
softly convalesce veins
from head to toe,
concentrated in the solar
plexus as I become the weary, dreamy traveller with little left
to seek, hoping that every closed door will lead to you wrapped in a duvet taco shell. Every bed is half-empty, so I fill your gap with a warm pillow and whisper, "I love you, Amanda. It's a softer heart at the end of every highway."

I read street art once,
that said, "lonely people
talk too much." I prove
my loneliness in para-
graphs to you that light
my darkest caverns. I
create my self-destruction
through my wordy negligence,
and this is why I can't subsist
in the world I make for myself.

I am a well spoken fool
with a very loud brain.
A brain that likes to chew
on itself and cringe as if it
were eating a whole lemon.

Christ, I'm the idiots you
died for.

it spoke to me in
medieval Dutch,
like an obese King
of Belgium who
hands out free ale.

All my dreams have
kicked me in the face
lately. in the best of ways,
but I still lie on the ground
awhile, shocked to be growing.
Like a flower in spring grasping
grass;

'wait a minute!'