I could listen to this voice for decades.


I think I will.

You smell like green and brown and taste like cotton swabs and trees. When I see you I don't see you but I see rhythmicity. Your skin is liquid chocolate and your eyes are hot green tea. Your mind brings mine to philosophy and not radians nor degrees. I find you in the clouds and in the cycles of the sea, seeing that you say that we're just God in hide-and-seek.

Life handed me two boards of wood and a bucket of nails and now I can't tell if I am suppsoed to be Jesus or Huckleberry Finn.

Tropic trips are quaint but..
I would rather be in your skin.

I write about the world.
The world does not write about me.
The world does not write at all.

*The world spills ink.
We form it into letters

He asked me when
I started writing so I
turned to him and
frowned. "Have you
forgotten my
birthday already?"

Poet, live melancholically as
A man with one eye and full vision.
Ambition but no depth
Perception.

Poet, live longingly as
A child in the corner.
Watching mother's wrist.

Poet, live remiscingly as
A bird crossing the street
Via sidewalk as a ghost.

Poet, live unconsciously as
A murderer, staring down at
A floorboard. Not blood but—ink
On your hands.