an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.

Lets try something new
An altered verse
Rhythm

Drink the chilling darkness
From the lifeless lips of death
Mourning skies paint roads with sorrow
Brushtrokes on a weathered canvas
Self mutilated through indecision

Moments frozen in eternities
Moments void of sound
Moments cannibalizing
Moments...

When traversing the wilderness
That fork in the way
Be it devils and demons
Be it cherubs and seraphs
Stagnation is death

Staring into the unwavering flame on the wick
Of a freshly lit candle, I nearly had a heart attack

Time too, decided to pause, the world grew quiet
And I grew sick in this endless moment.

Why was I so afraid to be stuck in one place,
All because of an unhealthy love for that glow

At the break, she danced across my eyes like
Orange brushtrokes on the setting sun of a canvas.

My heartbeat returns to normal, I breathe in
Letting all my fears burn away into ash.

2.5%
Precision and constants.
These words are 2 colors
And create something bigger.
The sword from that novel is
Still lost in a riverbed because
He did not need it.
We will touch feet and
Sing songs of unashamed
Laughter while learning to
Share what should
Only be private.
We taste trickles of
Fire.
We lick lips to stay warm.
We move together in silence,
And break rules.
To see would be too much.
Don't mention the brushtrokes
Because details are not relevant,
Here.
We don't need to see the fine
Points where the texture exists,
Just the shape of the figure.
The balance.
The rush.
Angry reds and the reason
For patterns to exist.
We can learn from the promise
Of learning too much.
The spray of gravel from
Tires. The way exahust
Fills the air.
We get lost in the smell
But stay together here.