WELLING UP inside your eyes
A sky is born above you
And ANEW your stars cry out

each moment
a cloudburst of
sweet rain blue rain
from the
mirrored
blue sky

I built a home for you, out of me,
when the bricks break
it is because I have been raided. The blue sky's
not even immune to cloudbursts
the humid air lifts
to resemble some form of heartbreak.
Call it
a mushroom cloud, I go off almost nuclear.

The truth loves me enough to reveal itself
the truth loves me
even when you do not.

I've decorated the staircase with it
and discovered rope-burn,
calluses like children wanting you to just watch
what they can do
watch a ceremony. What fathers create.  

I've padded its feet
with snow, the whole summer leaks with December
and my kneecaps are rotting wood.

Creaking
using garland as a noose
you know when I walk and when I sit, the truth
cannot stand for not knowing.

I've not let it lay down either,
this ****** affair. My
walls stay white and unheard of, untouched
yours are only
the cream of glue, I should have kept the doorway
shut and tied to you with a string.
Not even the truth can dissolve over a lie
(but I can, I can, I).

But
when God smells fear, he makes it happen
and God can be
a man, a woman, a lover.

The rosy-fingered dawn
  bleeds excitation
and atmospheric trails
  for seeking out tomorrow

Are these stars like rain?

  Emitting imagination,
  refracting suggestion?

Perhaps a new art form swimming
about as cloudbursts?

In undulating waves
  war and peace
are colliding out from
  the center of the sun

Could they be
messengers from heaven?

  A signal from God?

Perhaps at magnetic midnight,
four horsemen shall ride?

See, the smile on the stone face
of the mountain, once so cold, stoic
it drives home the meaning of change
brought about by erosion of ages past,

molten paste slowly sediments,
decides to be various kind of rocks
on it's path being metamorphic
is just one of it's pranks,

volcanoes in ******* frenzy erupt,
display the pyrotechnics of creation
in it's ******  urge a deep sea stream
breaks tectonic plates,makes new continents

mountains that hold their heads high,
are brought down by landslides, floods
avalanches or sudden cloudbursts

stars script secret messages across galaxies
the meanings will never be deciphered
in spite of the astonishing research
astrophysics can put together and
the thirst for knowledge of mankind

Beauty, my muse, lovely concert I adore,
I see you in animals, birds and fish
that undergo mutation and become different,
ocean currents, seasons,shower of stardust,
most of all in music, that activates the hidden signals,
that come beyond birth and death,embedded within oneself

Can you cite one reason for writing biography
of any one, whoever it may be, in this planet?

its taken me too long to unstitch my hands and free every thought you shuffled and stuck inside of my head

one. i think you lost me somewhere between wanting to cross miles to get to me and forgetting i exist because at some moments it feels like you worked overtime to fix the abandon architectural artwork inside of me like i was community service

two. after you came and knocked down trees and shifted the tides, every ounce of clarity was able to mirror
your whimsical efforts of drowning me out with pretty girl phrases and only calling me when you were too high to choke out my name

three. i had something inside of me that was kept under glass and i let you behind closed doors and watched you destroy it
i let you build me up with toy blocks just how you wanted me, and i let you lose interest when you decided it was more fun to knock me down and listen to the noise i made when i hit the concrete

four. the Worlds Most Fragile museum was being catered to in the holes in my chest and if i was an armoire and you opened me up your name in red pen ink would spill out of me over thousands of artifacts and priceless memories that you've bubbled over and consumed

five. even as i write this, you'd think i would find a home in an elementary classroom by the way i can barely remember how to speak
and ive got no doubt that you went out with your usual bang
and when you left you took a goodbye that never quite delivered and all of my words with you

six. my grandmother told me insects sing, for months, the same song in hopes that they will attract a mate with their repetitive soliloquies and maybe that's my hope when i tell you i love you even when you hurt me, hope that maybe one day you will pick up the phone and echo my ache with a clear, sober melody that sounds like home.

im sure the insects will find someone who enjoys their neurotic patterns and im sure i will sleep alone in an uncomfortable bed only shushing the silence as the mailcart comes by my front lawn and pauses for a second as if it empathizes with the way i stand at the door.

seven. im always waiting for a manilla package addressed to me
containing every night i spent trying to be anxiously clever and overlooking your bad judgement and the flickers across your sentences where you were forcing yourself to care

eight. every night all i receive is the crickets and a reminder that the letters that spell out your name had become my own personal hamartia before i started whispering it in my sleep

nine. ever since we met you've infected my veins like you were a deadly back alley drug and there's something so addicting about wanting to fix someone and figure them out and work for their love

ten.  if you steal my expressions and bury them in your ground and stick a wooden stake through my last words in order to make sure i only resurface when your sobriety is fully compromised, i will, as writers do, create myself a new dictionary

the act of your name will become a verb: forcing time to scrub the inside of every part of me you touched like im a sold off garage sale item and you're trying to expurgate any emotional damage that might have been done to lower my price

the way the bugs echo will become an adjective for when i am too tired to go out and pretend that my feet arent sinking into the floor

the drilled-for-oil glass museum in my heart will become a noun;  the eighth wonder of the world, and i will continue to let people destroy it and piece it back together for the sake of art

the way you left me and the ferocity of how you stole every part of me i showed you will join adverbs and Aristotle's tragedy principles among people who created their own cloudbursts.

the way i wrap everything i've wanted to say to the back of your head as you walk away into a bulletpoint essay will become my new definition for poetry and i will build myself up from the ashes i will create from your destruction, i will sing my own songs and showcase my own museums and mail my own letters and i will **continue.

It was like a
nuclear explosion
the day vision
caught fire,  
atoms were fusing
  and reverberating
titillated skies were
  in accordance,
the force of power
    by which poetry
       is reckoned,
eyes full of mist
heart ground to grist
at least 1000 lonely
   teardrops kissed
mind overflowing
with notions impossible
then it occurred to me,
   words are unstoppable -
irrepressible as
  hot steam locomotives
   and star combustion,
  waging a crusade 'pon
fire breathing dragons
'tween undulating cloudbursts
       of empyrean's ' stardust
amidst the conformation
       of an unrestrained utopia

Time Volume: 1
I’m eating up the hours
one by one.
Blink.
Click.
Blink.
another screen,
more non-words
Blink.
Click.
Just letters.
Click
9000 more words
blink
and more time.
Click.
To be forgotten.


Learning to forget
The melting *** cast a boy and I ran outside,
A slime soaked goblin, a monster from the pit
Lobbing clods of mud at a harmonic sky
Whirring with dragonflies and lolloping bees.

Sun and rain prepared a day on a different earth
Where there was life in the monkey puzzles,
And scuttling battle grounds that
hid hundred-handers beneath concrete slabs.  
Gravel churned up tiny black dragons,
rotten logs, fortresses of tiny fiends.

I had a sword in my hand, I was noble.
Defender of the realm, scourge until tea,
The hero of worlds
everyone else couldn’t see.


Time volume 2**
Excalibur was stuck fast
When the new branches fell
Click.
the tips of my fingers are beginning to rot.
Blink.
Click.
If only I could
blink
stop the second
click
See the world behind glass.
blink
and dance out of time.
Click.
This snow globe,
Is not the Antarctic.


Artificiality in Imagination
Turning my back on time and space with
Bottled brains, ***** mist, powdered thought
I chiselled into old pathways.
I carved a silk road through synapse and nerve
to return to my monsters.

I saw a sickness of colouration
A lynx effect for the sky
tearing punkish streaks into the atmosphere
that were quickly blinked away.
Sunspots, cloudbursts, tussocks, grass,
Paper squares, green, red, purple, pink, blue,
pungent smoke, bugs, ripples, shivers,
polka dots and blank spots.
A storm-cloudy stomach.

The perspective of a head plastered to the soil again
saw thing for what they were,
a tiny amazon thought lost to rationality.
My heart thumped for a fear and joy
in a way forgotten by time.


Time Volume 3
Why is it called wasted when it is time well spent?
Click.
my god, my eyes hurt.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.
Click.
What would I give for a pretty girl sat under a tree.  
Click.
search * (pretty girl sat under tree)
Click.
She’s hot.
Click.
So is she.
Click.
… could always.
Click.
don’t be stupid.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.


Fantasy for a Counterpoint
I questioned what’s real when she blinked at me
and stopped existing  when she closed her eyes.
No one taught us to write in blood,
Tattoo our names into each other’s skin,
Leaving claw marks for the world not to see.

Whatever you drew was Van Gough
Whatever you said was Keats,
Whatever bruise you left was Tyson’s.

The outer layers of or skin are dead,
It’s funny whatever you touch on a person,
Is already dead.

Just before our love got lost
I noticed a thread break away from the braid
Around your head,
a small incongruity,
That made your hair a mess.

Love became what it was when you said you were
‘as constant as the northern star’,
And I replied, ‘yes - always in the dark’.


Time Volume 4
This is progress for my sake,
Just in time.
Blink.
Time is money.
Click
Time flies.
Blink
A stich in time
Click
This is a paradigm of nothing time.
Click
I’ve got so much time.
Click
And so little time to waste.
Blink
I’m a long time dead.


Hope for a handful of dust
Eventually I will while away these lonely hours.

What black rocks stir while we sleep?
What prayers rumble still, among old stones?
Do they speak the eternal city and glow civilised blue -
Or burn timeless black?

Does the probing ivy find us out
And the blunt head of a worm investigate
our most intimate parts?

Or does a spectre rise from the soil
To live under children’s beds?

When is the point that death
Becomes something breath-taking -
And the brook, my brown blood,
The dead leaves my skin,

Is it fantasy
to put something
where nothing should be?

The soft earth will **** me in
And give my brittle bones
To worms and crows
What stirs beneath the stones,
may always be worms and crows

Chicago, where the rails become streets,
where the wind winds around corners to double tier trains that rain down with thunder below
cloudbursts of snow and slow traffic

Chicago, where cars and trucks stop at lights on the bridges, resting wheels on wet tarmac and men pass by wearing cagoules and flat caps: bohemian grandparents on northern fronts.

Chicago, where every building is a flat iron or a pencil windowed and widowed of safety net architecture,I look up from the window and flutter as she does, the suicide shipwreck standing atop a roof looking up and falling down, into river and rail track wakes.


If the dial-up allows it and this note finds its way through the orchestra, let me tell you this:

*You look lovely in your flower tattooed white dress.
I shall write about  you until you read about yourself and smile, the rest has
been thrown into the wind and has come to settle in the tidal flow, sit tight and see where it goes.

torrential inky blackness
an anti-equinox
over cobblestone
lamp post arcs perching
on 5 lanes
streets wear orange halogen light

concrete and water
his tires scream
on asphalt
the popsicle stains
on khaki
mix with downpour
of cloudbursts

sky is lost
in a darkened prism
scarlet solstices
passed long ago

Starving for meaning, an agnostic
bruising grey and white matter,
choking on maybes and half-truths,

finds indifference too easily. Never
pushing further through, cloudbursts
condensate but never conceive rainfall.

Something and always something
more gives pause, upon bathroom wall.
Scribbled as an epiphany lightening bolts

eye-opener, and its leakage capitalizes.
Each tagger finding more prophetic
words to denounce anything mystical

or godly. So, what's being fertilized
beyond the tinkling drain of insistence,
slumps downgrade to ebb of sewage

reaching sea. There amidst flotsam,
aeon's class of power perceived become
one with Supreme Being, an ocean.

Imposing Slate
Brushes shoulders with veiled divinity
Commanding attention from Sky Blues
Sliver cloudbursts
Spread tiny droplets of Crystal
To yield luscious Emeralds
Peeling off in sun kissed hues
Cascading towards pebbled Greys
Shots of Crimson
Mingle with Aquamarines
Gently swaying amongst traces of Gold
White tips race towards shingles
Churning Sapphires into Inky Blackness
Shepherding in an opaque understanding
Preserving its secrets
Anticipating .......
Ready to explore distant waters

(C) Pixievic

beauteous rushing realms of a besieged mind
    forgotten rhymes of scorched memoirs
delectation's reminisces 'pon dusky cloudbursts
     hazes of reflective delirium's inclination
scripted amidst skies of smoldering verse
   sans tomorrow's twilight of synchronicity nor
reasons beyond glorifying poetry's sublimity

why
is it that I
have a feeling soul

cloudbursts
sunbursts, of you

a ghost
so thin I did
not know

you had eyes
and could feel me

even as I feel
alone

man
           speaking
   you are
the weather

in my
bones

like snowbursts
     livid air,
so(ul).

Just as the colors of Summer
  Fade into gentle shades of
Nighttime cerulean and smoke,
  The velveteen sky whispers...

A restless secret echoing across
  Silent meadows, heavy with shadows
That bleed shrouded consciousness
  Into the museum of my thoughts.

Each canvas is made of my skin,
  Drawn tight to a bone structure of
A paradoxical girl who's fingertips
  Emit a light...

A strong light which used to flow
  Like a river over midnight tears
And take me beyond to the realm
  Of sensation.

But now, I fall weak before the canvas
  Into a slumber as deep as time.

Billowing cloudbursts of paint in hues
  Of sorrow white and southern red
Rain upon my resting body
  On the floor.

The ghost of my conscience comes
  To cover me with a quilt patched
In foggy memories, incidentally
  Soaked in honey whiskey...

Just as the ghost covers me,
  It softly focuses on lips and breathes
"The empirical nature of your thought
  Rhymes with sensational control."

Though I venture in and out of
  Dreamscapes unknown,
I still hear the sound of the
  Wraith in my mind...

Like the somaticism of a beckoning
  And lonesome mockingbird calling
In the nightside fields of
  What I suppose is peace.

My chest becomes burdened with a sigh,
  A decadent and pure intoxication
Of the abstraction of
  Reality...

Seven miles above a three inch
  Reality.

The Watercolors flood the ever deepening
  Hallow of the museum of thoughts,
Drowning the corridors of my mind with
  Her liquefied heart.

I have completely lost a piece
  Of myself in her forever...

And light [watercolors] flowed from her tender fingertips.

Benumbed was all focus
Each element that descended
Within my wake
Mirrored a distinguished display
Of carmine cloudbursts and vanilla memories
Whilst I gazed above the windowsill
Though each and every existence
Defines the epitome of significance
Now and infinitely forevermore

rose red rain, like
    blood tears
    running
     through veins,
preyed on the night
  as sinners pleaded
    for their dragons
      to be slayed
       in kingdom
         come's escape,
gray cloudbursts
  darkly applauded
    their defeat
     in thunderous claps,
aware there's
    no redemption
    for demons buried
      deep beneath
     an endless
       decreed fate

cloudbursts of beauty
you nourish me with your love
blooming daffodils

Knowing that Life rides a stormy sea
And cloudbursts oftentimes overwhelm,
I'll rig the sails and face what may be . . .
If Love is standing guard at the helm

Fearlessly I'll walk Life's thorny path
In the dark of night or sunless day;
I'll grapple with Fate's relentless wrath . . .
If Love 's blessed radiance guides my way

And when despair grabs hold of my hand,
Gallantly I'll cry my share of tears
While waiting for storm clouds to disband . . .
If Love's at my side to calm my fears

When all seems lost and hope goes astray,
And my dreams lie withering on the vine,
I'll endure and rise above the fray . . .
If Love's hand is clinging fast to mine

When my spirit flees this mortal frame
And is summoned toward the dark unknown,
I'll fare well enough with memory's flame    . . .
If Love lingers when all else has flown

I suppose that contemplation of things is the true prerequisite of Art
Then
Let feathers of winged creatures hold my gaze in their layered order
Let the vegetation’s whispers creep into my ears and plant gardens in my mind:
Let willows whisk my weightiness away
Soft, dangling leaves brushing kisses across my shoulders
Let the tips of my fingers grasp pieces of the sky and
pull them closer to my eyes
Let me examine them like shards of glass
Let rain feel like thunder
and lightning look like cloudbursts
The personality of a storm
inherited in its natural phenomena: elemental manipulations
My eyes upturned,
My lips soaked in sky water
I taste the cyclone
Let me breathe in the mist hovering amidst canopic leaves
Let negative space become positive:
purple shadows ascending from the bleakness of their Definition
Objects themselves bowing, and stepping backstage:
Let the Shadows Shine for a moment
And let me see it
Let the mysteries of nature hold my mind’s gaze
and
Let me paint them

It stood on a mound, prepossessing in its own right,
But the height of the grim, unadorned steeple
And the tableau it cast when storms would roll in
From the cold gray waters of Lake Erie
Was somewhat intimidating to small children
And others predisposed to being dominated,
Though what awaited one within
Could be equally intimidating, if no more so;
Oh, there was the nod to brotherly love
And coming to God with a joyful noise,
But the occupants of the pulpit
(Invariably square-jawed, gray-maned older men
Whose visages were brewing maelstroms,
Incipient cloudbursts on the very precipice
Of drenching the insufficiently pious)
Left no doubt as to the serious of their mission,
And were equally up front as to the cataclysm
Which would rain down on the congregation,
The mills, the town and all those
Who proved insufficient in their piety,
And while there were questions
Concerning prescience and cause-and-effect,
Most of what they threatened came to be
(The Montmorenci Company shuttered and silent,
A sad procession of U-Hauls, all on one-way rentals
Tottering out of town after the muted goodbyes)
Though, as an unintended and unforeseen consequence,
Taking the church as well, its grounds now only visited
By mothers and small children
Clambering upon the playground equipment
The church begrudgingly installed
Shortly before it closed its doors for good,
And when the gunboat-gray clouds
Rolled on down from up near Buffalo,
They would hurry on home
As the droplets, relative leviathans
Slapping on the pavement as they scurried home,
Came at increasingly frequent intervals,
And though they could hear the rumbles of thunder
Grumbling with a certain portent as the storm moved closer,
Their procession, though quite brisk,
Was more unless unworried,
The adults knowing full well the downpours
Were merely succor upon the carrots and gardenias.