a circling vortex of disarray
starts inside my head
clasped by unsure
yet supportive hands
the helpless recesses of which
lets the sycophantic white light of my desktop monitor
summoned upon a wretched click
scatter on this scattered face
forming a weak shield
amalgamated by the desolation
and imbecility of a roadside orphan
ignorant but lasting
on the crumbs left over
from a stranger's life

a familiar unsettling sound
cracks open this pale shield
and my brooding eyes open
to see her making contact
one instant
one magical instant,
and die the next
leaving my impressioned eyes
wanting more
i lie, lie to myself
when the truth is
there woud be no more
of her tonight

retreating never meant giving up
and i do retreat,
to escape the insanity
of her charm get to me
amidst real affection
to run away while wanting to look back
when an embrace is just outside my door
desperately wanting to hear that unsettling sound
which drowns the familiar sounds of laughter

the circling vortex now inherent
inside my head
clasped by my helpless
supportive hands
the helpless recesses of which
lets the servile white light of a numb monitor
trace my tears

oh how I weep
to be her onscreen ******.

Reading “Poem” While Waiting for her in Peet’s Coffee

Lukewarm coffee with nothing special
in it, and my brain buzzing
with words passed through a phone.
Ah, I’d love to go back to those days
spent singing and seeing colors in cement
questions asked precariously of my life
and yours, your and my possibilities.
But staring into the beyond, I am left
disappearing quick in the cold air like the warmth of coffee left on the table.


Precariously

in love
I was caressed to the point where
my face left itself
impressioned on the pillow
I pressed into every night.
My head was clear
because it was expelled
each night into a cell phone
away from here. It reached
an ear, soft and embracing
swallowing all I pressed into it.

The indentation I left
I saw as me
held precariously
in the head
of another.

Now, head spinning,
ready to be filled with anything
stable or not, I at least remember
being held.


Poem*

Is this love, now that the first love
has finally died, where there were no impossibilities?*

I saw no impossibilities with you
held there in all I wanted. True
there was bliss, but if what they say is true,
what else is that?
I remember more color
pointed out by you,
blues and oranges in shadows on cement
reds in faces and how the sky is the only one
who can blend yellow with blue, but

now all colors are an option
for this palette
though all colors mixed
leave grey

The temporary taste your mouth craved quickly became forgotten by your restless mind. Didn't realize what you so desperately needed until ripe sweetness dissipated.
Her tired eyes could no longer precipitate on that overcast morning.
In sipping that black coffee a little too fast, bitterness struck the buds on your hot tongue.
She watched you cringe and almost felt the same shock that once scarred her. Because she did kiss satan before. And she did cry, hard,
for you.
Ice boulders against your freckled shoulders.
I leapt off the crescent moon's edge to feel the mere flecks of snow upon my own skin.
Everyday I wonder, was that kiss a sin?
Impossible to reel in, you tugged from afar. Gravity envied your strength.
The pull of your drift made me remember my weakness. I have felt the weight of hate, that small bit alone so great. Your heart played the victim bait on my stretched out line.
I swear, the moon's never shined so bright. You reflected my own light, I just wanted a cool touch but certain hugs can be too tight. Too hot to handle. I offered you my oxygen but grew lightheaded. Then I regained my balance.
I suffocated suffocating the most innocent catch I ever knew. I could never reel you too close to me again or, fatally, you'd burn too. You left nothing but an impressioned body orbiting other planets when I thought I was the star.
I commanded God to make up his mind. "Choose one side and give me a sign."
Bitter or sweet, he manipulated both.
Her system so solar, centered on herself, His help was useless against the burning lies and sin lying within. Never again did she feel guilty since the day she realized that she was only one galaxy in his limitless universe.

"Where do I belong?", some man sings in his song
she can't seem to answer either
the question sinks deeper

Sick of all the tired quotes and overused anecdotes
They can't satiate her yearn
what is there left to learn of myself?

Her feet slide there and don't fit here
She's like a wolf with oversized ears
abandoned from the pack
left to follow dusted tracks

Sick of all the tired quotes and overused anecdotes
They can't satiate her yearn
what is there left to learn of myself?

A big bustling city with a little lost girl
Supposedly afraid of the world
Her bolting marine eyes search the sky
where do I belong

Sick of all the tired quotes and overused anecdotes
They can't satiate her yearn
what is there left to learn of myself?

Gentle and silent she makes her move
one click to capture their groove
forever impressioned on her film
the world has changed

Sick of all the tired quotes and overused anecdotes
They can't satiate her yearn
what is there left to learn of myself?

Her reflection, something new, confused
the man continues on with his song
They still don't know where they belong

are niqabs are as much nearing
sunglasses,
as i was was posting a
postcard -
    the same as watching ****
online?
   the eyes are the windows into
a soul...
         what were ever bodies...
if the lost tract of timing,
    how frightening the woman's
take on fashioning a body,
in what is: easily fashionable,
and what becomes:
the supposedly: awaited for:
hunted for...
            the body in an awaited
attenborough,
what bore, what craft,
the last remaining artefact...
    the weeping man leaves no
man astounded by the moon -
the cat, remains intoxicated -
            and the remains...
      a sacrificial lamb of an invoked "loss" -
the kiss abiding:
a night alone in sight:
is what leaves the craft
the most: astounding!
          pale numbing skin
of pumpkin, and the lost letter
of a year, i grieve with,
to be: hunting the best kept forget!
at least i have my
    lost charm...
          and the most intact
     harmonies of a deadened intactness
of: a lastened que of charm...
      that moon, in milken hue
leaves me: suddenly
       anguish riddled,
by the hue...
                     i die the bachelor,
and reawaken as the
father, to the barren,
           lord of sleep;
kept i the barren, pumpkin king
of sworn deflowered fold;
i have seen death be swollen -
with greater routine of "escapism" -
that than pale lament pumpkin...
of love be said:
  the last be the lasting counted
made: the most impressioned
        first, minded, forgotten.