8:00 AM, Monday, Nov. 14th, 2016: Alarm goes off.

He rag-dolls himself across the flat. Past the paintings that huddle on the floor against the walls, past the unpacked boxes concaving from dust and into the shower where he keeps the alarm clock and pliers to turn on the broken shower handle. The bed is a place where thoughts unravel like yarn that one can never quite ravel back to its former integrity, so he doesn’t like to stay there long. Instead he concentrates on the two-day **** smell that trademarks his bathroom. Always two-day ****? He thinks. Never one-day?


“WHAAAP WHAAAP Click” he hits the alarm with the edge of his fist and starts the water, which hits the floor of the tub in a carbonated rattle that emulates the patter of the office water cooler being rinsed and refilled, rinsed and refilled for the last twelve years (his personal duration with the company). Avoiding the water cooler is thirsty work but allows him to dodge creepy office gossip. It is enough in the morning to have to shout “good morning!” in a practiced timbre and twist one’s face into a look of serenity to flaunt at coworkers. These, at least, he’s mastered. He thinks practicing these last two items out loud.


Feeling reasonably damp he shuts off the water, towels down, climbs into the clothing he set out the night prior, grabs his computer bag (also pre-stocked/sorted) and marches through the front door, hair still damp, climbing through the frozen city air coloured by police sirens and the familiar song of commuter impatience and into his Honda, saturated in tree-air-freshener fumes.

The radio: “BOW CHIKA! BOW CHIKA! Bow Bow HEY!….Clap along if you feel like a room without a….” bludgeons him through the stereo so he cranks it louder still and try to keep up for about a block, voice horse and deprived, so he settles for a low hum but ultimately feels like a ******* and opts for silence. When the thoughts start to unravel, he turns the stereo back on, half mast.

The bassy throbs of his heart assaults his rib cage, so he’s almost at work.
“Hello! HeelloO!” He practices again bringing the car to a stop, his left foot hitting the pavement as the Honda leans forward, backwards, then goes still. “HE—llo!” Back through the frozen morning, fiddling the keys in the lock and into the building.

The front door of the office presents its sickly yellow face and last minute sighs are exhaled.
“H…cough HeelloO!” He invites.
“Morning! Debbie returns. “Hey!” answers Rick. “Yo, yo,” says the intern whose name he feel terrible about forgetting. “How you doin’ today, Mr. C?” He asks.
Why the **** would he ask me that, it’s 9am, he thinks, but musters a “Me? Great!” in a tone that plainly sounds like Droopy Dog after receiving news from a physician that begins with “I’m sorry, Droopy” so he adds “just another day in paradise!” Something he picked up from young ****-types in university. 
“You?” he directs the question not only to the intern but the entire room to demonstrate gusto.
“Living the dream!” Says intern; “Couldn’t be better!” Says Debbie;  “Another beautiful day! Another beautiful day…” Says Rick.
They stare back at him with their mouth-corners quivering, eyes twitching, neck-veins prominent. They’re literally bursting from the seams with zeal! He thinks.
“Couldn’t be better,” he thinks. “Living the dream.” He settles into his headphones, a small fire welling in his gut. Don’t these people ever get tired of being “great?” He thinks, queuing “Three Little Birds” on his iPod, watching the waves move in, then out, in, then out on his new animated “beach theme” desktop background. 



He settles into his headphones but can’t distract his way out of the thought: why can’t I live the dream? Why everybody else, and more importantly, why not me?

The concaving mystery
The simple act of love
The beautiful act of life
The confused act of insecurities
The hope of acceptance
The charge of degradance
The violent act of power
The intertwine of two souls meeting for the first time
The lesser the meaning of this 3 letter word
The lesser the meaning of the 4 letter word
What is *** without love?

There I was standing in the stark cold
in New York staring at the fast-paced
traffic breezing past my sight, flashing
bright blurs blinding my eyes, heavy
rising fumes lost in the air from rusty
engines, as I breathed in the loud
vibrations and mixed creations
surrounding my eyesight.  
The towering buildings concaving
around my soul.  The high pitched
trains pounding my brain, steel
scraped railroad tracks sifting
inside broken lanes.  The blinking
stoplights lingering in helpless
shadows.  And as I gazed at the
scarlet stained sidewalks, how
the cigarette butts sunk in
meaningless mazes, screaming
embers disturbed and scorched,
scarred and surrendering,
my heart was against the wall.
I could feel everything around me
moving in accelerating speeds,
scurrying pedestrians clouding
my wild breaking frame, swollen
grayed trees clicking and blazing
in little language, red smashed stop
signs falling in between compromised
worlds, while I struggled to break
from the love that stole my heart
in the nighttime spark.  I could see
his dark twisted eyes in the shadows,
crimson-black designs destroying
my mind, smoke shattered kisses
torturing my dimension, as I
gasp deep heavy breaths,
embracing every single solid
drum shuddering inside my nation.
How was I to know that your love
could burn my flesh, razor flamed
and ******, over flattened and
rammed, a cold unrhymed beat
diminishing my existence in the
blackened skies.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes,  I wish you were an ocean away.

Sometimes I look at my mother,  and pray I'm not like her, but other times,  I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.

Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.

Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.  
Because sometimes,  like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.

Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.  
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist

I was complete
come back
You swept me off my feet
come back
I can't breathe

My lungs are concaving
come back
I know we're worth saving
come back
I'm breaking

You've left your mark
come back
Etched into my soul, so deep, so dark
come back
You were always my favorite form of art

Music doesn't sound the same
come back
I read between lines of pain
come back
They all seem to whisper your name

My world is a colorless black
Taylor
Fill this emptiness with one simple act
Taylor
Please come back

Humans are ****** up.
We search and search for the approval of others.
     We coordinate clothes in order to get "that image."
     We make our music selections based on what everyone else is listening to.
     We don't shower because hygiene is so uncool.
     We starve our selves to get concaving clavicles.
     We boast of the ***** and drug abuse in order to appear "hard."
Why?
     Who cares what he/she is wearing if it makes them feel good?
     Why give two ***** if they don't know that band, it doesn't make them inferior or you superior?
     ******* shower, if you don't shower for own personal enjoyment then power to you but because "greasy hair is in" isn't acceptable because I can tell you, it's not.
     Collarbones aren't hot or romantic, the only thing deep about them is the depth, very few people like to cuddle skeletons, maybe necrophiliacs but if you want to cuddle a necrophiliac then good luck to you.
     Being a heavyweight, smoking ****, cigarettes, hard drugs aren't ******* cool. If you do them then do it for yourself and not because you want other people to know you do them.
Riddle me this,
     If we accepted ourselves for the clothes we wear, the choices we choose, the body we've been bestowed, and everything we are, then would we need others' approval?
    Is having an image all that great? Think about it, your image in the mirror, you dissect it until you want to change almost everything about yourself.
    I understand that I am the worst hypocrite of them all because I have yet to approve of myself but that's me. I accept that. Can you?

The roof is collapsing,
caving in on every promise,
breaking down to show what's real.
The walls are condensing,
concaving in unspoken words,
building up on what's been broken.
Structure built on false foundation,
only creates faulty condition.

I took a long and hilly road down to memory lane,
The trees concaving in,
Acting like a roof to the animals that scurry by.

Our house hidden back behind the pines and oaks,
That is where I grew,
Where I prospered,
That tiny house is where I learned to love,  
Where I learned love,
Doesn’t last.

The pond in the back,
Seemed to croak at night,
The rooster crowing in the morning behind us,
And now I awake with nothing but silence.

I see no roof covering my head when I walk out the door,
Everything has seemed to change,
And driving one last time down that road and onto another,
The trees seemed to wave goodbye.

I love your hair
The small strands
Of golden brown and
The way it moves like waves
Around my fingers
As I watch them disappear
In and out of view
I love the way
My lips feel
On the bottom of your neck
The skin concaving
To the kisses
That I place there
With my chin resting
Against your collarbone
I love the hands
That draw swirls
Absentmindedly
On my thigh
Or lay on the curve
Of my waist
Your fingers
Brushing my spine
As they nestle
Between my ribs
I love your eyes
The blue of a forget-me-not
Saturated with that plea
Swirling
With the jets of blue
That crash into the harbor
And the caves disguised
As craters
That barrel through my soul
I love your lips
That kiss my hand
When holding them
Isn't enough
That caress my own
Like a warm sigh
That bubbles inside
Or that rest against
My forehead
To show me
Reassurance
Isn't only in words
I love your feet
That root themselves
Around mine
When I try to push you away
My winds howling
Through your branches
As you sway
Like a pendulum
Back and forth
Accepting of the rain
I love your smile
That gratifies my humor
And rises with your cheeks
That blush the color
Of the inside of a cherry blossom
When I whisper in your ear
I love your wise stare
That playfully pulls at my pigtails
As I twirl in circles
And shout at the Gods
Seeing me as Helena
Inside the quirky passions
Of a young woman
Trying to find her voice

You know that feeling before your heart drops?
The slow concaving of your chest
And you want to **** and cry
But you're too hurt too afraid

And there's nothing you'll ever be able to do to forget
How badly that hurt, how terrible it feels to not be able
To take anything back
Yet it's allowed to take your happiness
Your smiles

**Everything

How to stay anything a world gone mad
sickening consumption
so egos may last
bellies teetering
gitty with greed
and yet we all wonder
why there is so much bad

it's all spinning backwards
everything is concaving
why are we so comfortable
being so blind?  
despise the overgrowth,
yet they present life
killing mammals for sport
yet not to eat what they killed

why so tethered to that of our
computer screens
doesn't it bother anybody
there is a world to see
why,  I must ask, why
the people are growing tired of ****
the government can be of so much more

yet the white men reek in their thrones
not knowing anything
calling a nation their own
when really it's the money
which keeps their ego afloat

history repeats itself
doesn't anybody know
the protests and death
alluding to a brink of war

and who would tell
those mad fools
who would cure
the ambiguity in
their holes

If I could write everything I'm feeling
On the tops of the walls in acrylic paints,
Would the words drip down the wallpaper
In silence,
Reminding me that emptiness
Is only relative,
That whatever magazine cut outs
And indie band posters I've hung over the years
Can dissolve into the vastness
Of my memory?
That somewhere in my organs,
There's pictures of you drenched in
opera house pinks,
Van Gough sunflowers,
Georgia dirt reds?
That the paint ran down the walls
As quickly as you ran to me,
A four minute mile of I Love Yous,
Paint dribbled bursts of joy
concaving over the stillness of the pavement,
Blissful evenings where the wallpaper
Was hardly a bother,
Just white noise blurring the rest of the world so I could focus
Focus on nothing but you

I will always stay in love
with your African kingdom,
the brilliant galaxies in your
diamond-bright eyes, the lids
so perfectly detailed, the pupils
a universe of fascinating depictions,
monumental instruments, the fine
arches in your lustrous nose a grand
ballad of love songs, **** biteable
lips a riveting ocean concaving
around my heart, reeling
me inside your wondrous waves,
endless perimeters I wanted to run
my fingers across and feel the heart
of your existence rise and shine
inside my light.  I was madly in love
with your street jam, the upbeat mazes
moving within your desirable voyage,
the fluffy clouds circling around the
poetic verses within your symphonic frame,
the flavor of your flesh an intoxicating
taste on my passionate lips, slipping
in the crevices of my tunnel, pumping
heavy rhythms in sensual spaces, stroking
my world, igniting shimmery sparks
inside my heart, making me rise in high
sounds as I embrace your beautiful brown skin.

I know enough to know that I am a strong warrior,
a true representation of a majestic mountain,
a monumental kingdom standing tall like
an enormous tree, massive buildings concaving
around the shimmery sea.  I know that I am
beyond talented, intelligent, and dope, to know
the rhythm of my style, rhythm of flow,
rhythm of smooth silky freshness revolving
around the landscape, to understand
that my soul is complete and reinvented
into incredible inventions.  I am unforgettable,
a legacy like no other, an astonishing man
born of great brilliance, immeasurable perimeters,
phenomenal poetry – vast volumes of captivating
diction hypnotizing the world around me.
I am the one they call life and dreams, moments
in time, the rising phoenix, poet in the night,
infinity, a sublime creation who has been
unchained and emancipated.

I can see the equations of infinity
surfacing in your boundless sea
a liquid vowel spewing with chemistry
and exotic sounds
an addictive alliteration of poetic languages
spinning inside a glowing globe
a hypnotic drug deepening inside my invention
magnifying in a prism of perfection
triangles of symmetrical depictions
concaving around my foundation
a geometry of sequences and series
lining the skyline
a derivative of various entities
expanding into an integration
of physics and philosophy
multiplying anatomy and biology
its intricate equalization maximizing
into extraordinary thoughts and broad horizons
philosophical dimensions seeping int a wave
of sociological photographic representations
each astonishing area a linear alignment
escaping into accelerating gravity
all continuous and phonetically crafted
becoming a final body of bright bridges
deep channeling centuries pouring with
crisp adjectives and descriptive adverbs
There’s a stark stanza embodied with a marvelous voyage
a sudden discovery bursting with timeless terminology
a melodic mountain growing into increasing aptitudes
a flawless function of algebraic architects
unraveling fascinating destinations

You are my fortress of desire
burning a hole in my heart,
a harmonious charm hypnotizing
the inland of my kingdom, so wild
rising, so towering, infinite power
intensifying in my veins.  Sublime
sweetness, heavenly harbors
so carefully orchestrated, deep bridges,
bursting mountains, moonlight
shimmer, brilliant trees and leaves
concaving around the arch
of the landscape.  I adore
everything about your amazing
treasure, your statuesque symmetry,
your maze of mysteries, all
incredibly creative and intoxicating.

Your passion was so revealing, delivering me towards the
incredible seas of your love, such amazing adventures awaiting me,
sparking me, so hot for your body, the erotica of your phenomenal
sexiness flowing downstream in my throat, a roadmap of growing
kisses, your pleasurable history becoming my favorite subject
of the night, my eyes awakening, the blazing flames of your
beauteous desire overtaking me, disassembling me, shaking
my frequency as I felt your manly black beard with my fingers,
your distinguished and vivacious eyebrows, your seamlessly formed cheekbones, your appealing aroma spinning me
into planet Mars.

I just wanted to be escorted into the light of your fire, eager
to take off your boxers, feel your gargantuan greatness,
to stroke and ******* the splashing mix of swagger
and soul in your shaft, the sensuous veins so exquisitely
intriguing, like a constellation of clouds celebrating with the
lustrous sunlight, like a tremendous ocean concaving around
my soul, all glowing, showing its excellence, the ***** a sweet
flow of waves, a hundred drums of pounding super bass,  
how you encased me inside your garden of majesty, how I could
get so drunk off your masculine physique, clinging to you endlessly.

Blood trails on the mossed Greek cheeks
The Memories' eternal catch but a wink in the cemeteries
My hands are made of spider webs,
Mine own heart, of shards
Fly, away they fly blue and white butterflies

A wine glass rolls in my hand, in my red lips.
Here stands Mona Lisa in my ethel funeral,
My abode so criminal: black leaves,
wrinkled lake, and dusted music box

A haunted castle in my spectral soul has
A marble floor extending its arms
To the mosaic of stained glass made
Of old apparitions

I, hopelessly romantic
Under the arch of an inscrutable moon gate
My clandestine tears on love letters
Stained with times and cherry wine

My rose is my wand so shy
Spellbound together like a parchment of decree
To the concaving world for a long farewell
Anonymous me! A man without pedigree

By the ruins of far nymphaeum, where
A garden of sculptures echoes underwater,
Where lost dwellers sleep of inarticulate tears,
I submerge like a goddess who lost her firstborn

On the cliffside where lobelia blooms
Wait I motionlessly amid the gyre of speeding seasons  
Hidden like burnt legends of gods
Like a page in the Library of Divine