cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

Ah, the fallacy
in talk of tree limbs
and fragments of the broken-apart.

                     Those scars opened a rare window
                     below the cloud tops
                     and into her room,
                     where a new dress of fallen leaves
                     hung in her wardrobe,
                     fleshing out her understanding
                     of how that blemish
                     lingered long enough for
                     her own intentions,
                     hidden behind the frown,
                     to surface.

The myth in her eyes
wishing they could say,
"Might we share this fall together?"

/or my *** dealer.
man alight with gemstone glands &
sticky at the tips.
each finger
pressing wet pampas cure.

the touch and study of
high-fi royal matter. (rose galactic)

savannah, hand
& fleshing meat in the heat of mother cradle.
africa man, tell me how was it?

details: the nature of today
& of tomorrow,
of pleasure kid.

t-shirt, he
prepares an atomic roll of autumn magic and smile, friends
or simply just
a spliffy belief in holy hallelujah man.
wild this.
tree of knowledge of good and evil and all in between.
tree of

the modern mystic noon
& in it is energy/vision/like midnight
but throated in such
humming beautiful light.

the sky breathes endless love,
said sun and fun,
marooning us onto an all-day sigh.

what kind of person fantasizes about being sicker than they already are?
man, it's time I realize life is worth it and I've made it this far
when I can't forget, can't forgive, and get stuck
tires spinning, thoughts running, strength thinning
out of control
what role does my faith play in feeling whole?
I wish I could erase this hole eating away inside
but then I might just feel more empty
I try to cut through the feelings by cutting through the skin that covers this lifeless body
the razor shreds my flesh instead of fleshing out all of the chaos inside this mess of a mind

Blanc oblivion thinly beckons
where riotous heart requests accounting's debt
in solitary thoughts of Gatsby-born yearning seconds
across lantern's green light ambient water's depth

Mallet's chisel chip lines of marble translucence
ordaining Venus's vague and insubstantial essence
passing on near wings of plovers
shore's dashing burst of smooth liquid love

Spilled words all but mingle in measured metre
fleshing forth anatomy of a mannequin's naked plume
disposed to press black key fugitive figures
sprinting sandpiper legs from sand castle spume

-cec

I've written now on many things, like Christmas and **** elves
But back inside my mind there's things just sitting on the shelves
They're waiting, sitting patiently, to venture to the surface
And knowing just how my mind works, this makes me kind of nervous.
I censor myself constantly while fleshing out my work
There's things I hide from everyone, dark things in my mind lurk
This year I wrote of soldiers and made some readers cry
That's not what I intended when I gave those poems a try
I want to make you think a bit when you read the things I wrote
I want to hear your laughter, not get choked up in your throat
There's things I'm asked a thousand times, like where'd you get that thought
I try to answer honestly with "that's not the thought I sought"
I sometimes write poems backwards, with the finish coming first
For 'till I get it on the page I can not quench my thirst
Of writing things you will enjoy and will share with your friends
That's what keeps me going, it's what gives my mind the bends
I've written verse on kid's Christmas plays, although I have no child
There's some still stuck up in my head, they just sit there un-filed
I have some thoughts for this new year that I am sure will please
And others that might tear you up, and bring you to your knees
All I ask is that you read and keep an open mind
I don't care if it takes a  month, your reading is not timed
I'd like to read your comments on what I've written down
Did my writing make you smile?, Did my writing make you frown?
For those of you who can't read fast, one thing before I go
This year since you can't read fast, I'll write my poems down slow.

When reason, spirit, and appetite meet
There-in my soul you do greet
A complicated mass of intention
Whose sole purpose is the want of attention
A stingy, selfish thing it is
But I am human
Of man.

And we are as selfish as a creature can get
For when the balance of these forces tip
Chaos of the soul
Mans weakness of will
The weakness of willing mind
To want
To hold
Something for all time

But a man made of mortal flesh
Cannot hope to beget
A love that is as immortal as the Gods
A love that is beautiful for all time

Goodness, and beauty are what we seek
A soul without love
Miserable and full of deceit
Of despair
Of mindful rot
Flaking off in fleshing decay
A loving heart is not meant to end this way

It is meant to mourn over the loss of life
To love a man/woman with all its might
To cry
To care
To kiss the morning with lamentations
To hold onto the feelings of sensation

A loving heart, a soulful mind
Is meant to imagine love for all time
Meant to dream
Never despair
Like breathing without air

But alas all I can do is dream
To write of love
But a wounded heart doth know
That before the burn, the ache
Of raw flesh
Salted
Prolonged in suspended agony

That there was beauty
There was magic
In the darkness of the night there was joy
Laughter in the alignment of her soul

Where her love was not new
But right where it should be
In her arms
Wrapped up
Held so tightly
She never thought of falling through

But no longer can she claim
Mindful retention
She could fall apart
One wrongful infliction.

I spend a lot of time worrying about what other people dream, what they want from life, and making it happen. I always try to play roles, like the good student, or the sweet daughter, or the funny niece, or the counseling friend, or the reliable sister. But what do I want? What do I dream?

For a long while it was three simple things. Kids, animals, writing, and I never questioned or developed any of it. I mean, I had a relative idea of dates or amounts of kids, and relative writing ideas, and relative animal ideas, but nothing solid.

But today, though it may be f little interest to anyone else, I'm going to flesh out my dreams. I owe it to myself.

I want to publish a novel. Particularly a social commentary. Particularly something important to me, like mental health, the environment, relationships, family, etc. And particularly something that people may like one day. I'd love to have a novel that people know. It would be really special.

I want to have kids. At least one, preferably two, livable three, pray to god no more. And you know what, I'll love any kids I have, but I really want a girl. I want a little ball of crazy who can be a pirate or a princess and follow me around and call me mommy and cuddle on my lap and let me read her stories and be my baby girl. Maybe I'm crazy superficial, but the cake topper for me would be the ability to name her Alice. My little hero of Wonderland. I mean, the white picket fence dream is to have one boy, one girl, but I guess we'll see. If I get no girls, I'll name something else Alice. If I get two girls, I better pick one super meaningful name for her, because only one is not fair.

I want to see Africa. The animals there have always been my favorites, and I feel they're just so wild and crazy and different. There are deserts, forests, savannas, lions, zebras, okapis, all of it! Its always just seemed so wonderful to me and I've always wanted to see it in person.

I want to take my kids to Disney World. I want them to feel the wonder I felt as a kid, and fall in love with the magic I loved as a kid and even now. Maybe like I fell in love with Wonderland and various other worlds Disney created, maybe they can find their own worlds that resonate with them and make them feel safe.

I want to find or build a house for my family and decorate with love. I have art skills, I can decorate everywhere. Disney rooms, book rooms, video game rooms, all of it. I just want our hearts to be strewn across the walls and be a place of comfort for them.

I want to get married to a man I am madly in love with. Obviously, I think right now I'm with a man I could easily love the rest of my life. I wish with every fiber of my being that the home I dream of, the kids I want, the books all over, can all be things I have with him. But I won't make promises to myself that I don't know what will happen. God knows that in this second I want no one else, but I cannot force myself on the person I will be in the next twenty years. I can only dream all of this will be with him.

I want to create art. Not atypical art, with paint or pencil, but with crafts and words. They are beautiful pictures that I'm good at making, and I'd like to not only make them for family and loved ones, but maybe one day sell them and do more than just be that ever-writing author stuck in their study. Maybe I'm crazy, whatever, but I want it all.

I want to graduate college. Not only because I'm already in it, and I will enjoy the time I have, but I do want it over with as well. I know everyone's going to yell at me and say shut up they are the best days of your lives, but people said that about high school too. I enjoyed my time, but I look forward to today and tomorrow much more than I enjoy looking back. I want to graduate and have a lovely time at college, but I also don't want to spend forever here. I want to learn what I can, make friends for life, make connections, and then start the rest of my life. Start being a professional writer.

I want to start keeping an open dialogue with my audience, not just here, but on other social medias, so there is a connection even before I publish my first book or the ones to follow. I want to be an approachable author. I want to seem human, not like some unattainable, far away thing for young authors to look at. I want to be real.

I want to publish a poetry book. Obviously I'll wait another year or two, and compile the best ones, but i think it could be fun. See me write novels? Well see me write short things too. I know most authors/writers pick a niche, but after years of trying to find mine, I don't think I want one. I just want what I want.

I want to write a memoir. Though I use a pseudonym, one day I want to grow the confidence and strength to write as me, and tell people not just the stories that go on in my head, but the stories that are going on in my life. Hell, maybe I'll call it something cheesy like "The Girl Behind Grace" or something super cheesy like that haha

I want to start a bipolar group wherever I raise my kids. I mean, I'm sure with the way I am and how the person I'm with is, we'll have quite a few years of adventure. A lot of years. But I will put my foot down and say for the sake of kids we need to settle, at least for a good twenty years. I want to be a leader and help others like me where I live, i want to help people feel better. This life isn't easy, and we deserve help and a group and a community just as much as any book club.

I want to work on my baking/cooking chops. I want to be so awesome at baking and cooking that all the kids want to come to my house for dinner and I can make my kids their own badass birthday cakes. Maybe even make cakes for friends and neighbors for a bit of money. It will be awesome.

I want to visit my family at least once a year. I know that may not work out, but I don't want to lose them in all my crazy life that I plan. They may be out there and need help but I do love them, and I want my kids to have a good sense that they have a huge family that loves them so much.

I want pets. Crazy pets. Turtles and dogs and pigs. Those are the ones I really want. Dream world says one turtle, one pig, two dogs. It'll be absolutely crazy cool. What kid gets to go to school and say they have a pet pig? my kids.

I want a garden. I'll work on fleshing out that idea. I just want to be outside more. I love outside.

I want to fall in love with my life more and more every day. I want to have fun with my family. I want to play video games, a write like a madwoman, and be a good mom, and take care of myself, and make my home and life beautiful. I want everything to be worth it at the end of the day, even when not all things are ok.

I want a lot, I know, but a girl can dream, right?

unpromising,
this ****** clay
scooped from the thames.

old, used scoured
****** of old father
thames, river of home,
of shame and escape.

mould me, make this
wet lump pliant,
knead it into man-shape
paint it green, blue or
gold, red white and blue,

not with harsh horse-
hair brush, but soft
with tender finger-tips.

fashion mouth ears eyes
and that piece some
women prize.

breathe life into this
teeming, fleshing thing

mouth to mouth, eve,
make me man with
kind words and passion.

take a rib and press it
to your *****

Today we heard a man’s voice
coming from the whip-cracking static:
he says  it’s not that expensive
to buy a star.
You laughed in chimes and told me
that there are some things
not worth owning. You own so many hearts,
but a star is a silly purchase.
A worthless nothing to you.

We lie together that night, a small hotel,
riverside highway on our way to the moon,
and your skin clutches mine
a hungry animal, fleshing out to my own,
all shivering lust. You are aloof, I know it, you
don’t even care. The lies of love
are on your face, I can feel it.
What I might trace there
if only I could find my fingertips,
tracing the contours of your lips.
“That diamond necklace I bought you
looks beautiful at night,” you say.
But honestly it’s choking me,
weighing me down as you breathe
these words into my lungs.
The hideous transgressions that limit
the capacity of your soul, and mine--
my heart, captured there, fleeting
until the next breath bursts.

I feel like them, all the rest,
the girls you pretended to love
the girl I am pretending will change you.
If they didn’t come back to you,
hungrier than before,
you didn’t do your job right.
It’s the way you think,
what I can see on you every day.
I may not be any different than the rest,
but I know better than the best of them.
Like now: I can see you, the heart of stone
the ice of your face on fire
as we move from room to
bone-white room.

In my sultry silver skin, bathed in moonlight,
we sat beneath those stars, and you said,
“I bought one for you, named it for you,
I will forever keep it for you.”
A ball of ice and gas and fire is no longer
a worthless nothing
so long as it spells l.o.v.e.
in nauseating simplicity, no effort
on your part. You don’t have to choke
the words down, cough them up,
until next year. But you’ll already have gone.
A star is finally worth something
because I will always be worth nothing.
I hate being ****** into this circadian rhythm,
a habitual love and lie. If only
I could look at you
without questioning,
if you own half the stars in the sky,
who the rest still shine for.

Here I am,

living in the space between
truth and reality, fleshing
out fact and fiction.

Honestly, honesty doesn't
always mean accuracy.

Symposium of grief and
all its little tear soldiers,
running down your face,
fleeing the battlefield before
the war's even begun.

I wish you would stop.
Bringing logic into this,
that's so like you, like
logic does any good when
I'm like this.

Why do you get like this?

I don't know. Ask God.
He has a very sick sense
of humor.

I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm getting beyond myself.
I'm getting tired. I'm getting
so tired, darling.

Erasing myself from history,
not that hard. The only mark
I ever made was on myself,
young and stupid on the cold
bathroom floor, begging God
to throw me a crumb.

I don't remember everything
from those years. Now when
I think of blurriness, I think
red.

Jesus. It hurts to write this.

I tried explaining it to you
once. I tried to tell the truth,
but it wasn't the right one.

What is your truth?

Do you really want to know?

I could spend the rest of my
life writing about this. I hope
I don't.

Fleshing holding it together
The void grows, emptiness
Flames burn violent in the human engine
Running on fumes, full steam ahead.

Numb to the senses.
Fissures painted across broken body.
Powerful negative energies seep through
Fueling the harsh reality.
With every strike, hatred explodes
Begging now for a quick finish.

There is no picking up the pieces
Shattered glass self reveals
The mirrored ill intentions.
Saturated in darkness
Breathing the heavy poisons
Eyes awaken, sights restored.

Seeing clearly again,
Evolving, to perfected form.
The key in misery, mastered in solitude.

maybe it really is
as my good friend says teasingly
that I be no good
with kitties n kiddos

“But you are good among them!
There is difference you know
They love to play with what
they recall as one of them”

No offense!
he adds and laughs
I smile - Yeah?

Does he mean ...maybe
These kitties and kiddos
are some sort of teachers?

which I mix up with love?

while they only mean  to break
my circle symmetry so I can rise
up a spiraling uncertainty ?

Is that why I fell for Second Law
then crashed ...with the all of me
gorged inside to be scattered outside?

Easy way out I guess
sleeping with books
cheating me
I can read
while asleep

and now
from these times and lines
dunno what really still trails
hopefully a piece of mind
that dares
to question the essence
of the glorious teachers
who illustriously tried to show
a fleshing out truth
of me

it’s no mystic the reply to the question
‘but when do I see?’
one step away lies truth
always in love and made of now

I better be asking… then
when dare you pass?
and stay
and be
now?

Floating like velvet
in warm summer ruffles
lolling carelessly.

Idle breezes drift,
through open windows
traces of honeysuckle

The lethargic drone
of wasping afternoons
the befuddled trance

The holy divide
of consciousness and cloud.
the hazy glaze.

Drowsy dislocation
slight breath of a sated soul.
The heavy heat.

After planting
before reaping,
vegetable growth.

The waiting time
The moored vessels
limpid in the dog watches

Would you lay
in humming gladness
like motionless oceans?

Fleshing the harvest
the pregnant swell of seed
the ripe fields flushing.

The amorphous world hates each and every creative soul
Another, I can't name
Except the idols held in such high regard
Excluding the ones I disavow
Save a few, all ideas are below me now
The masses all bleed but not all bleed red
Some bleed black, and some bleed falsehoods.
Our perfect community has more common ground with the enemy than the elitist ground we've come to sacrafice our lives and time defending

If only for the present my perception is less muddled
Before I cloud my mind with hurdles
To Disincentivize
Future fleshing out
Stout lies, watching promises
Fall by the way side
I will rise
I repeat the faster I sink
This elevator ideology is showing no signs
As it drags me to hell
One intention at a time
Marching round in time
Circling, quickening my pace
Winning a race
Invented for me
By people like me
How about you try me
And then we'll see just how deep
Inside me
The mitre has me
The mindset grasps me
And chains around me
Feel soft as feathers

The wings I fly on are burdens beneath my feet
My brothers and sisters hold the keys to my shackles but have mistaken them for unspeakable horrors.

So I don't know where this is going, but I don't think I ever truly do.
My mind is full,
full to the point of overflowing
But still,
I am alone.
Even the thoughts which constantly fight to gain attention are of no solace.
They do not make me feel alive
they do not make me feel at all.
With all of the happenings that are occuring you would think I would care
but there is no care left in me to give.
I do not even care for the bone and flesh that is my body.
How am i to care for anything else?
I often gather the blankets,
hide away from the world
at the bottom of my bed
where no one can get me
nothing matters
but the deepest darkness which surrounds my form
the heat from my breath which cannot escape so returns to warm me
the rough feel of the woolen blanket against my bare skin.
reminding me
that i am still a part of this crazy world
with all its living
breathing
feeling
things
my arms wrap tighter around my chest
fingers round ribs,
falling into the gaps between each bone
still pressing
still holding
the sharp taste of blood reaches my nose as
in a futile attempt to abait the darkness
each finger delves into fleshing.
pushing
pushing
until the blood rises

though still,
it comes
the screams and the fear

Unheard-                                                                
They poke and ****.
Absurd-
I don’t fit you description of a ******-
So doctor, jump me.
I didn’t ask for the
Endless sob-
The rejection of fleshing
My health and anxieties
Into human form again.
You’re not a friend,
You’re a judgmental man
In a lab coat
Who denotes his time to
Giving patients unanswered answers
And more pills.
I’m never going to be sorry
I do not fit into this
Patriotic Addiction
That has taken so many from me-
How dare you…

"I will love you forever, whenever you want me to..."

Yesterday, I beat the **** out of a TV with my father's golf club.
The day before that I beat the **** out of myself just thinking about every moment I ever thought about you.

"Surrounded, your blood, skin and pleasure drown me out."

You mentioned holding her hand in the breakroom and my mind couldn't help fleshing it out. The glaring pine tabletop reflecting the shine in her eyes. Her body leaned forward, yours relaxed but arm outstretched, hand curled to cup the outside of hers till she rolls her wrist and you rub your thumb over her knuckles... But I couldn't draw all that. A sketch never hurt so bad.

"I'm not one to be..
three..four..sure but,
Now I,
Now I,
want what you want"

I want to be whole again.

immersed in the fleshing of the Universe
dressed in skin and bone
your soul everywhere all at once
and belonging nowhere here ultimately no home
just passing through my dear, just passing through...

Steadily functional,
Kept together everything else.
Needed not any appraisal,
Silenced the clanging bells.

Connecting one to the other,
Correlating unfamiliar vices;
Like clearing murky water,
Like fleshing out carcasses.

Tells the truth and nothing more,
Never meant to show;
But still you didn't connect us;
*You just loosened and let go.

A fell sweeps claim oer an oceans crawl
Its swell held steady on her masters wheel
On tip of tail
Rip pelts its gain
To faces of white oak
Fleshing its lash to stern a skreel

Akin spill brine oer crested seal
Flayed to a heap on star of board
Meets mercy to a shantys wail
Scored deep inside her blackened hold

Buckles bound to chain and silk
Be heckle fetched to flattery
A brat un bridled to its helm
On wish be forged her majesty