hes skipping the blank parts.
fire spewed speaking out his eye and everything.

swear it lets the silence in.
to ***** midmorning naught but bile

and tar from your lung, sour taste on tongue 'and charred resinous lips and cankers in mouth.

skipping the blank parts.
this is too much to put in words it pains darling like mouth is faucet ears are ringing sight is grey and unwholesome nerves are sweaty like wrists and jaws too. heart thick heavy beating like a ******* palms and brow sweaty

a new nightmare never sleep gone delirious ever after think only of the thee and the thine and what can i do to make it stop naught but drink for ever after.

early sunday is the worst day. days are ever after cursed is sunday and the bad day, was always was it leads to monday and the no sleep and you go to school or work and they all know you are so tired

so id rather skip the blank parts and spend in blankets cold and clutching to this bottle ever afer like a baby cuz its nicer when its blank here.

------------

so now its the dawn gray, the child breathes in all the nerves of the surrounding block and breathes in.

what thoughts there darling stir that tattered man of child man of scattered breaths and
and of least action least least resistance

night smokes away in his lungs.

his sight unsteady and grey, **** the stars.

his head holds the stars as he passes away.

he thinks, "I dont wanna be astounding, I dont wanna be anything, the dreams, i smoke the night away...why wont they listen?"

the yammering outside his windows

he clutch the sill, needs for balance and hes sweating thinks the week back in his memory. did something dumb but he skips the blank parts like a movie but its not his cellophane life its becoming more like that he thinks

-------------

the cats outside his window yammering outside his window

"headache man and the sunup surprise" he thinks, garlictongued and glittering of sweat.
something strange here something dumb something wicked.
like melodica, im disturbed in step

hitched his pants hitched breathing summer sweet midsummer nightmare is the thirst and drink.

"and somehow it helps" he thinks, head droning like the bees they are buzzing out his window, but screech in speak like the crickets

the air might ripe and seethe.

he can barely breathe.

the scarlet cheeked is he and fairly farther from himself than usual, laid away in pace and time and people, all else arrested. the vines now they crawl along his sill on which he clutches ever after pick the roses from his cheek.



and so he often thinks of it, and his peers think its selfish, but he pronounces himself in such ways as to make it pronounced that he is thinking of this.
and they give him no consideration, no pause or gaze to entitle him to a moment's breath of doubt,
that he is most gnawingly alone.

they gather no cinema, no accord, no intervention. they simply do not comment upon his lost thoughts. and this no comment, for him it seems, gives him validation for his, heretofore mentioned, but heretofore implied, unmitigated and (some may say) uncalled for unarrival.

there are no senates in the state of human. only the mindnumbing pain that is his sour being, upon which he has coerced the subject upon the senate to be impressed:
that he is waiting for the right moment, to be impressed.

to be enough to take himself.

it is not pity, but such a bitter impulse.
that brings him to himself, to take.

------------

and as father of all pronouncements, the species of newspaper blaired...
"the king is dead, long live the king."
so of which he was reading, was par for the course.
he sat down with his wife, and his son, and he spoke to them gracefully in his normal fathers and mothersfamily whisper, he said:

"this is the time when we must eat our cereal, and be well-versed in our gods, and our gaols. and we must believe in the powers that be. for they have told us no lies and will tell us no lies. and if it not so, then this paper begs the difference.
this paper...pulp...and felt, and gold, and ink. will never speak of us naught.
and for what they proclaim to us, the masses, is written in ink,

and thus, so stone.

so believe."

so god ate his wheaties that day.

------

and so i rant and so i speak in illogicals and i so im biased i know.
this is what it takes to be a journal and to filter all the bad ***** things that are black out of the poets mind.

so blame it on cadence, blame it on speak, blame it on linguistics, blame it on my upraising, blame it on an apathetic attitude,

i dont care, just blame it.

just it is my mood and it will not be forgotten, it is me that is scribing this sentence, so it is not forgotten, on the fence and bethrothed to many ideals hence so i be,

i am not an idiot.
i am no coward.
i am not a leech, nor am i a parasite, nor i am a murderer, nor am i criminal.

i sit still still with moles burrowing their burrs into the underground, waiting for the tunnel, and so, the light.

Our story's beginnings are rather plain
Set in a town built on the mundane.
In this town, there lived a boy
Devoid of ambition, love, or joy.

He sleepwalked through his days
Aimless and alone.
Drowning in a melancholy haze
He longed for something lovely to call his own.

Now, I shan't tell you the young man's name
For fear he'd hang his head in shame
But his story you should know.
For it's not the name that marked this boy
But the places he would go.  

One day, an idea dawned
To take a day trip out of town.
The boy made a map
And a line was drawn
To the path he would walk down.

He followed the map with surprising ease
Over the hills and through the trees.
Though the boy was thrilled
He couldn't wrap his mind
Around the treasure
He would soon find.

The path came to an end
Without the map's warning
Causing the boy's plans to upend
Before it was even midmorning.
But the boy was in awe
Despite the offset.
He knew what he saw
He would not soon forget.
In the middle of the golden field
Stood a tall ivory castle.
His chronic disenchantment healed
The boy vowed to see inside
Whatever the hassle.

So he searched for a door
Until he could search no more.
He attempted to climb
With no regard for time.
He searched for a ****
Or a lock
Or a key.
Only when he was about to give up
Did the answer break free.

Against all reason
The castle began to glow.
When the transformation came to completion
A strange voice let him know.

"Come in," coaxed the disembodied voice
Honeyed and assured.
Feeling as if he had no choice
Inside, the boy was lured.

"My, you are a rude one," the voice began to chide.
"A lady invites you into her home, and without a word, you come inside?
I'm not expecting you to write me a sonnet, but at least have a bit of tact!
If we're being honest, boy, I believe your manners lack."

Sure this was some sort of stunt
The boy calmly shook his head.
"Forgive me, Miss, for being so blunt
But I believe the fault is yours instead.
You expect me to believe I was propositioned
By a castle that spoke?
I am certain one of my peers commissioned
Some sort of pricey joke.
I'm sorry, Castle Lady Dear
But I must be on my way.
I'm afraid I can't stay here
Perhaps we'll finish another day.
It's truly nothing personal
I simply have a hunch
That if I stick around for now
I'll miss my mother's lunch."

The boy turned on his heel
Not saying any more.
He soon let out a pitiful squeal
When he found there was no longer a door.

The Castle Lady countered his squeal
With a sinister cackle.
"Did you really believe you could leave me here
Without it becoming a debacle?
I'm sorry, dear
But for now
To this place, you are shackled."

Heart suddenly stricken with fear
The boy's eyes filled with tears
And he began to cry.
"Please let me go!" he cried out.
"I am far too young to die!"

Much to the boy's chagrin
The Castle Lady only laughed again.
"Goodness me, my dear!
You must be some sort of fool!
I do not plan to **** you here.
How could I ever be so cruel?"

Angered by the castle woman's taunts
The boy's eye began to twitch.
"If you won't **** me, what do you want?
Let me go, you witch!"

Unphased by his outburst
The Castle Lady simply tsked.
"Are you sure the witch is me
When you're the one being so mean?
I know what a statement this might be
But I believe you're the meanest boy I've seen.
But you can relax
For I've had my fun.
I simply have a favor to ask
Before you turn and run."

Against all logic
And stranger-danger talks
The notion of adventure
Overpowered his urge to balk.
"What is it?" he asked the Castle Lady
As curiosity struck.
When the Castle Lady responded
He could not believe his luck.

"Resting in one of my rooms
Is an awe-inspiring prize.
It holds power and beauty few men ever get to witness
With their own two eyes.
In fact, it holds too much power
So much that it's making me sick.
Only the brightest of young men can bear it
And you're the one I've picked."

The boy's heart raced.
For that prize, he yearned.
Still, he said:
"There must be some mistake.
Are you sure this is a prize I've earned?"

Overtaken by laughter
The Castle Lady began to roar.
"I am not that sick, dear boy!
Of course I am sure!
I can not make any mistake
No matter how small.
Didn't your mother teach you
That divine beings know all?
Now, you are an imaginative lad
With the charisma to match.
I'd dare say you are the best equipped child
Out of the local batch."

The boy couldn't help but crack a grin
Flattered by the Castle Lady's assessment.
"I suppose you must be right, then.
Now where do I get my present?"

"It is not a difficult journey at all," the Castle Lady replied.
"Just walk a bit down this here hall
And look to your left side."

Suddenly, the room filled with bright light
To help him find his way around.
In saying the journey was not difficult, the Castle Lady was right
As another glowing doorway
Was soon found.

"Very good, you clever boy!" the Castle Lady cried.
"Just give your fingers a quick snap
And take a step inside."

Proudly, the boy followed her advice.
The snap of his fingers reverberated
Sounding quite nice.
Secretly, the simple action
Gave him a small thrill
For he was the only child in his town
Who had such a skill.

Just as the lady promised
The door opened right away.
Thus, he took that fateful step inside
As she said he may.

Alas, it seemed the boy had been cheated by his wanderlust.
The only thing inside the room
Was a wooden box
Coated in dust.

All sense of wonder gone
The boy was certain it was a trick.
"You horrid con!
What in here is making you sick?"

Unamused, the Castle Lady sighed.
This was not the first time a child had thought she lied.
"You're jumping to conclusions, boy.
I'm not that sly a fox.
If you want to find the treasure
Look inside the box."

Begrudgingly, the boy obliged
Lifting up the top.
In the moment he saw what was inside
The whole world seemed to stop.

The boy's jaw dropped
As the box glowed
As if it contained all of heaven's rumored light.
It was true that he was unlikely
To ever again see such a wonderful sight.

"Well?" the Castle Lady inquired.
"Would you like to keep it?
You have all the qualities required
It's only fair that you reap it."

"Of course I'd like to keep it," said the boy.
"But what should I do?
What power do I have
To take care of this box
Any better than you?"

"The box can do anything," said the Castle Lady.
"Perhaps that's why I can not have it.
Still, you need not engage in special care and keeping
Or develop any new habits.

The box can do whatever you wish
Cure disease and famine
Or make your family rich.
I can not tell you what to do
Just use your own discretion.
Besides, it wouldn't truly be yours to use
If you did so under my direction.
So simply take it home
And do with it what you will
But before you choose to roam
I have one more message for you still."

Holding the box to him
The boy lifted an ear
Regarding her as a friend.
"What is it, Castle Lady?
Please say what needs to be said!"

When she spoke again
The boy could swear her voice contained a smile.
"When you leave me, the castle will come to an end
And this part of me will be dead.
Though I'd love for you to stay a while
So we could become better acquainted
I'm afraid that would be against the rules
And the prophecy would be tainted.
So, clever boy
For now, I'll bid you adieu.
You deserve to be given joy
And I hope that is what the box will do."

No sooner than she spoke
Did the castle vanish
In a puff of smoke.
Once again, the boy stood in the field.
In his hands rested the box
The closed lid keeping its powers concealed.
Somewhere between satisfied and sad.

He gave her a eulogy
However unorthodox.
"Goodbye, Castle Lady Dear, I enjoyed our little talks.
Maybe we'll meet in another world...
Oh, and thank you for the box!"
Having said all he needed to say
The boy knew he should be leaving soon.
He turned to walk the other way.
Walking home, his fingers snapped a tune.

It wasn't long before the whole town
Knew about his treasured box.
The boy made sure all his friend knew.
In school, he stopped all of the clocks.

He provided his class with great delight.
As a school day
Melted away
Into a Friday night.
The grown-ups none the wiser
He pulled off the perfect crime.
Forever the improvisor
He also did away with bedtime.

He gave his family money
As the Castle Lady said he could.
Though his old bullies looked at him funny
His clothes had never looked so good.

He gave himself popularity
A Labrador puppy
A brand new bike.
The ones who teased him
Spoke apologetically
And there wasn't a single girl
By whom he wasn't liked.

It wasn't long, however
Before the fun began to fade.
As much power as he had, he never intended
To share his gift with his whole grade.

"Can you tell me
If my pet goldfish is really watching from above?"
"Can you please help me
Make my parents fall back in love?"
"Can you make it so that
My grandpa isn't sick anymore?"
"Can you invent a robot
To help me do my chores?"
"Can you make sure
That my family keeps our home?"
"Oh-- and while you're at it
Help me write my girlfriend a nice poem?"

Alas, the boy paid no mind
To their wants and needs.
He had left his charitable days behind
In favor of his newfound greed.
Though his box could do anything
It really wasn't his job.
No matter what happiness to others it might bring
Of his power, he'd feel robbed.

He didn't know that at night
His friends went home to cry
Asking their nonexistent treasured boxes
"If he can have something special
Why can't I?"

Life went on like this
Until one day, he was greeted by a bird.
It landed on his shoulder
And hissed,
"You'll never guess what I heard."

The boy was quite frightened
Both by the bird's familiar voice
And what it said.
Still, his eyes brightened
When he shouted
"Castle Lady?
I thought that you were dead!"

"Too bad," the bird crowed.
"For I'm very much alive.
And I figure you should know
I won't allow you to continue to connive."

At her choice of words
The boy sputtered.
"What do you mean, bird?"
He nervously stuttered.

The Bird Lady stared at him
With beady black eyes.
"I mean, I saw what you've done with your gift
And I was unpleasantly surprised.
You didn't disrupt any tradition.
I told you to do what you would.
It was just that I had the premonition
That you'd use your power for good.
You're no better than any of your classmates
You silly sap!
Did it ever occur to you
That you were only picked
Because you can snap?
When my last life came to an end
You thanked me for the box
And ran home to your mother.
My spirit would have been able to rest
If you had used the box to help others.
I am older than most earthly things
And some sights I've seen are hellish.
This in mind
It's beyond me
Why you'd choose to be so selfish.
See, this box was once mine
Changing owners as it does
And when it fell into my hands I wished
To be anything but the girl I was.
From then on, I've been trapped
In the form of many objects
And, whenever I try to go from this world to the next
Fate always interjects.
I'm the keeper of this box
Until it falls into the hands of someone good enough
And I'm here to say, dear boy
I'm afraid you must give it up."

Without warning
The boy broke down
Dropping to his knees.
For the first time since that fateful day
His sense of superiority ceased
And truth began to reign.
Head in his hands, he grieved
For those he had caused pain.

The Bird Lady remained by his side
Trying her hardest to soothe.
"Now, clever boy, you need not cry
But the box does need to move.
Now, I need you to calm down and listen to me
And let me make myself clear.
I need you to go to the sea
And that's the last wish you will make here."

Suddenly, the boy understood.
When it was far too late, he used his powers for good.
So he wished for the ocean, heeding the Bird Lady's advice.
The two of them were at the beach
Before he could think twice.

"Very good," the Bird Lady praised.
"All you have to do now is let go.
Don't worry, my dear boy
When the box finds its forever home
I'll be sure to let you know."

The boy nodded.
With shaking hands, he looked down.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the box
And all his wrongdoings drowned.

"Thank you very much," the Bird Lady chirped.
"Now, relax, and let your conscience be cleared.
You can go home
And I'll take it from here.
One last thing
I should tell you, my friend.
All this can be fixed
If you just have an ear to lend.
No matter how heartfelt
Apologies only take you so far.
What you should do now
Is fix your regrets with actions
To show them what a lovely boy you are."

With that
The Bird Lady dove
Picking up the box with her magnificent beak.
The boy returned home
With redemption to seek.

All these years later
Our nameless boy is now a man.
He's ordinary, yes
But ordinary is good enough.
He doesn't look down on others
Or even try to act tough.
Though he's no longer a heartthrob
One girl remained by his side.
When she is there
He never has to hide.
When a friend has a problem
He is there to listen.
And, though he holds no glowing box
His eyes still glisten.


Meanwhile, our Lady's soul
Now rests within a spaniel dog.
Though the box still has no permanant owner
She doesn't think it will be long.
Though that might seem unlikely
Divine beings do know all
Though everyone makes mistakes
Both big and small.
She may chastise others
For poor choices and self-control
But in the end, she knows the box only needs one thing:
To be cared for by a beautiful soul.

Your spine curves like a saxophone,
I intend to play our symphonies
on the pearls that decorate your skin,
That trumpet in your throat sings
loud and full of life,
Please share it with me tonight,
The metronome across your chest
is a warm reminder of who I have
been looking for,
We do not even notice the broken
strings we share in our necks,
looked past tongue tied apologies
in the midmorning outros,
lay with me here tonight,
as if we were a chorus,
in just the right tune

thumb frozen, ears red in the cold heat  
Interstate-25 apocalyptically empty, windless and mute
my northbound shoes the only sound
on the dull dawn’s ashen, soundless stage  
what other survivor of a sleepless rocky mountain night
would I encounter?  when would I see another face?  

the cars came with the sun as it struggled to make
white progress in a gray sky  
they passed me, again and again
like I was not there, or
little more than a faded billboard
they chose not to read  

when her brake lights came on,
a half mile down the road, I ran towards her
wondering if I had been an afterthought
a simple ambiguity
her black Porsche 911 backed up to meet me  
a turquoise covered hand opened the door
extended itself to me in the warm sea of air
in her tiny cabin, “Hi, I’m Myra”
“Denver?” I asked
“No, just the Springs, but we’ll see what he can do”  
and Myra and I flew by the cars that had passed me  
I gave each a haughty stare, those slower vessels
that had left me there, to freeze on a Colorado plain  

“Escaping” from Taos she said, from a bar
on Canyon Road, where “he” had turned on her,
spilled their sacred secrets like beer on the tavern floor  
she made her exit when he was in the john,
******* or puking, she knew not which,  now,
at 90 miles per hour with a stranger half her age  
she was spilling her own secrets into my eager ears
her black mini skirt, red skin tight sweater spoke to me  
as much as her words--she was there for the taking  
precious flesh ready for greedy consumption
her stone heavy hand touched my leg, punctuating her story  
with breathy exclamation points, plaintive question marks
and prescient pregnant  pauses, I wondered
where she would take me or if she would take me  
“Denver?” she asked, “Mind a little detour?”
it didn’t matter where, thumb time
is measured in miles, not minutes,
and Denver was as cold as the road
from which she plucked me    

her house was a wall of glass,
with Pikes Peak framed perfectly
by her bedroom window, and when  
we finally swam smoothly on the waves of her waterbed  
she cried out that all was beautiful again
now that she was home, in the shadow of her mountain
in the arms of a stranger, whose seed rolled down her leg
as she moved farther from the Taos tavern and
whatever truth she could not face  

I wanted more of her, but the intoxication of strangers
lasts only minutes longer than full blooded wine  
she called me a cab, and in a black silk robe
glided me to the door, where she laid $100 in my hand
“The plane is warm and the airfare is only $39”
I tried to kiss her one final time
when the taxi stopped at her steep drive,
but she buried her face in my chest,
“No more, he will be here soon”  

the midmorning sun now burned the sky blue  
the cabbie slapped his meter on
and I was back to measuring minutes and miles  
I looked back for as long as I could  
and saw the perfect reflection of her mountain
in all that shining glass, her black silhouette
only a curious slice in the reflected portrait
of the beautiful fleeting morn

As I wander in, the path ahead unfolding
I'm forced to reassess the playing cards I'm holding
Conquer and divide the uncertainties,
only to find they're alive, they've multiplied
And though my days wandering down the wrong path have ended
Its set for the aimless wandering to begin
Most days are unsurprising
I can see the sun arising
Illuminating the things I've learned thusfar
Though still leaving me with a tin can for a heart
It's like looking in the rear view mirror,
objects no more nearer, rather farther
And it's only getting harder seeing, believing that my intuition's not deceiving,
That the feeling that's haunting me
Isn't just because of where I want to be,
That what I see is what I see,
That I haven't shrouded my head in rose colored glasses,
Not clouding myself with whatever flight of fancy
Passes me from midnight to midmorning, warning me
That morning light dancing across my bed isn't the harbinger of another day of medioctiry,
But the bringer of the life I swear I see.  
That I haven't deluded myself concluding,
Reading signs alluding to some moment frozen inside my head subconsciously
That I swear has been there all my life,
That I'm fated like I thought, not condemned to waiting,
Not believing without reason, not deceiving,
But seeing the redeeming that I've seen,
Just believing what I've seen.  
Just believing.

I think sometimes you forget that I'm real.
Days pass by, a text message in the midmorning.
Another later in the afternoon.
Its been a while since you've told me "Goodnight".
It hasn't gone so undetected.
I keep myself defended. No photos, no updates online to remind
You that I'm human.
I've come to this conclusion as I drift further from you.
(not by my will)
I know it because I believe that when you and I are face to face once more,
When you hear my voice speak your name,
Hear its hollow inflections,
And see the shadows in my eyes,
You will remember.
It may not change everything or anything at all, but perhaps I'll no longer be
A robot, fictional character, or fading memory.

Light of the dawn
A midmorning song
We lay awake
All day in bed
Wondering about the day
We will be wed

Winter winds blow on through
My open
And seared window
She cries asleep
Into her weathered pillow
I'm afraid for you
I'm afraid for me
How many times we gonna' through this babe
Until we can truly see?

Mountains with bare sides
No flowers, no snow, no rain
There ain't nothing to gain
When the love ain't the same
Two guns on my hip
A cool cigarette flip
The guitar player gently
Fingers his wooden pick

Out on the horizon
Where the sun and moon set
Angels play their hands
With no interest in the bet
Luck is a lady
Smooth and tangier
Don't go away baby
Stay right here

Lost souls on an ancient highway
Take a drink, go my way
We walk through the fog
We trample through these ancient groves
Any man who has followed
Has once thought
Not to do what they were told

"A million and one secrets,"
Chuckled the referee,
"A thousand things keeping
You from me."
He holds up both his hands,
A smile painted on his face.
"At least you got what you wanted.
Your solidarity and my inevitable death."

He twists the the .45 in his hand.
He pulls the trigger.
He falls to the floor.

At night,
When all has fallen silent,
Rats tap
On our window.
They're hungry like
We all
Are. I feel sorrow for these outcasts
Of nature, society, reality,
They were born in the gutter
Only to die
In the gutter.
Entering the threshold of
Mind and skin, it's hard to believe
Every one of us
Is
Kin.

The horrors
Of our violent, imaginative mind,
Can only mean
God chooses not
To materialize.

We'll have
To put
Ourselves on
For size.

Say I have lack of faith.
State I am a non-believer.
And I will listen, I will nod and grin.
But I wish not to dabble
In tribulations of deaths win, for what I have done,
What I am, and what I will do,
Will have no weight of
Religious sin.

All I can judge myself on
Is what I have and haven't done
For each
Fellow man.

I awake and the day
stretches out before me
and I wonder how I will
pass the time?

I could clean.
Less clutter means less stress
and if there is one thing I need
it's less stress.

I could work.
Due dates are fast approaching
and the truth is I do enjoy the challenge
and the feeling of satisfaction afterwards.

I could read.
Just take the day and escape
to an alternate reality where people
act with purpose and in the end
it all makes sense.

I could walk out.
Just throw this life away and find another
Variety is the spice of life and in all honestly,
I've done this all before.

But as I think and stretch
like a cat rising from a nap
my hand brushes your head
and my fingers slip through your hair.
You stir slightly, your arm subconsciously
wrapping around mine, and I know what to do.

I unplug the alarm
silence my phone
hold you close
and have midmorning dreams
of nothing but your beauty

you are city buses
and rain slicked streets.
and your neon heart pulses a mile a minute
but i have never seen someone so captivating.
youre an old apartment
with concrete walls
and sometimes in the winter the cold creeps in
but you never know whether to smother it with blankets or to leave.
youre midmorning traffic jams
but instead of anger you accept it and you sit in the car and you soak up life like a wildflower and ive never wanted to be the sun more.

To have a sky that belongs to you
Ownership of blowing winds
Passion that thrives on fiery rains
Timid enough to tickle palm leaves, midmorning breeze
The Cat Lord reigns
The Gentle Bear croons
Fox Queen moon eyes over pounding rain and fragile dust and life in balance around and within

Perfect nestle
Triads and purples
Bass and tremble
Gentle

When you told me you were leaving
I had practiced the path of which my
fingers memorized the curvature of your spine
and your ribcage.
That way your memory would forever be in my fingerprints

The week before you left. I watched you
carefully,
And then all at once as you threw
yourself against the wind.
The way you tried to absorb into the clouds above you.
You just wanted to go home.

As much as I wished, you would never call my arms home
Instead they were a nose that was ever tightening against your pale skin
Too tight but too loose.
I just wanted to love you.

5 days before you left.
You told me we were better off without each other.
That I was merely a past memory.
The nights we spent limbs oustretched and entangled meant nothing.

But you wrote me my first love letter.

Slipped under my dorm room door
Softly like a midmorning whisper or a kiss goodnight
Just fast enough to be seen by a fleeting eye or felt by a barefoot
You told me you had no idea we would turn out like this.

3 days before you left.
I laid awake in both disbelif and awe that someone who was once so close
Could stop and then suddenly restart my heart again and again
until finally it lulled itself back into a chaotic slumber.

The day you left
I refused to watch you leave from the rearview mirror
Everyone knows you only look through that mirror if you want to watch something dissapear.

My blind spot was way to thick
And my tears were traces of past memories that were yet to be written
I was too selfish to even aknowledge the simplicity of a goodbye

But you wrote my my first love letter.

you loved me
the way i love dirt.
like a promise,
a glimmering spark,
a catch on the inhale.
a soft and malleable thing
glowing faintly from its core.

you loved me like i love
dusty records and animal bones.
you loved me ephemera,
your glittering oddity,
your very best party trick.
i loved you all the magic
i could muster.

i loved you
every star i'd ever counted and
the memory of falling and
the shapes of all my favorite words.
you loved me
pheromones and
midmorning drunk dials.

you prayed and you promised and
you slipped your shaky fingers
five fathoms deep beneath my skin
and tenderly uprooted my veins.
you sweetly cracked
my ribcage wide and
picked all the seeds from my guts.
you lit up my new hollows
and found you hated
clean white walls.
you never quite forgave
the way i let you ****
the parts of me that you
knew how to love.
i loved you flooded lungs and
atheist's prayers
and never enough.

you loved me
the way i love dirt,
and sometimes in my dreams,
i cover you in daisies
and weeds
and trees with tough roots.
i watch the wild things
climb high and nest in the branches
stretching out from your ribcage,
wildflowers tangling their roots
through your bones,
your body a home
at last.

please know that i’m alright, you don’t have to worry.
i’m sorry for ignoring your messages yesterday. i wasn’t sick, i just decided to skip school and i’m skipping it again today after i drop this off. please don’t be mad-i went to that overlooking spot we’ve planned on seeing together. i really needed some air to think, about the previous weeks. though in all frustating honesty, there’s not much of a need for it- the scenes they’re made up with play on repeat in my head anyway.

i’ve grown fond of getting to know you. of the sound of your voice while you talk about your musings no matter the range of randomness they go by. i’ll always remember that blue’s your favorite color, the satin kind just two shades away from the cerulean of the sea midmorning and that you prefer your meatloafs crispy. i’ll always remember all our exchanges in the locker room that went on even as the bell rang, the notes passed in class contaning nothing but stupid banters. and how can i forget lying in the field, our playlists running along the sky as it got drained of its last pastel colors?
oh how we held hands once, twice-thrice if only i didn’t stare for a second longer than i should’ve, making it awkward.

there’s no use in denying that i’d love to encase your fingers in mine each time i’m with you-be it in the field, in the halls, down some road we’d get lost in, that diner you get a bucket of wings from. perhaps you can fill the gap between my fingers with all the darkness and secrets and the whims you keep at the edges of your mind.

and that’s what terrifies me.
that in the course of talking to you i’ve grown fond of wanting this. of having ‘more’ come out of this.

all my life i’ve known better than tethering in territories anchored by love and all its *******; this isn’t me being cynical just realistic. this is more than just trespassing some abandoned building just to get a nice view from its rooftop. neither is it because of baggages accumulated from past heartbreaks. no it’s not that i fear your being failing to be inhabited by some past lover’s ghost, causing my expectations to be let down. i just have the tendency to act brashly-this part clearly shows just how capable i am of causing you pain, maybe more than the potential of loving. so i’d rather you hurt from this revelation of who i really am.

when you get this please just ignore me, i’d take pleasure in you hating me. ‘cause as much as i want to keep talking to you, i just can’t. i’m sorry.

when what used to be our songs play on shuffle, please don’t ruin them with thoughts of me. they deserve to be shared with someone who’d dedicate them to you as love letters not someone who has goodbye letters for a confession.

walk with me through lavender fields
the stuff which essential healing oils are extracted
relax with me in wind swept grasses
warmed with midmorning sunlight
stroll with me to forest canopy
and atop pine scented carpets
of dried Christmas tree needles
which fill my burlap drawer and closet freshener
quietly guide me over
fallen branches upon which mosses have grown
down winding paths of brown earth
brightest green leaf and fern
half a mile along we see the broken edges of blue sky
trail leading out to rocky cliff
overlooking beach strewn with driftwood
unhewn telephone pole
down the steep traversing path
to sandy shore of the tiniest pebbles
where tall orange rocky formations rise from
waters like islands....
walking along the water's edge
leave our footprints
where no one else has stepped today
enjoy every moment
the stuff which up until now we have only
gazed upon trough our windowed world
of yearly calendars.

who needs a clipboard anyway?
the back of a lover's legs are enough
lacking the flat judgement of wood
embracing the fluid of my words
upon the sweet kiss of skin.

absorb me in the cracks of your mind.
soak me into the patience of your smile.
drink me in the holes of your eyes.
lead me into the scars of your past.
lose me in the folds of your heart.

crack open the yolk of my heart
and let me leak into my streets of veins.
allow me to drip into your soul
and sink like grinds to the bottom
of my midmorning melancholy coffee.

the ink of my favorite pen
seeps into the threads of my sleeves.
i sit, watching it spread across fibers
to infect new lands and
conquer old stains.

my ship never had a sail but
my hands are strong enough oars
i can carry myself across oceans
treading night after night
until i reach you on the shore.

Along the white sugar river bend
Dew kissed fields of clover set ablaze -
in midmorning sunshine
July arbors teeming with concord grape ,
scuppernong and muscadine
Whitewashed farmsteads , aromatic ploughlands ,
red clay shoulders girdling country byways
The cackle of curious guineas , of bay hounds and
gray geese
The clap of breeze driven mirrored cattle-
ponds
The splash of shellcracker , bluegill , yellowbellies
and bull frogs
Land of a million daylight colors  
Woodland groves sprinkled in piedmont -
blues , in golden stippled brushstrokes across antebellum -
oak and majestic pines ...

As I sat on the shade,
One sunny hot midmorning,
Memories of August holiday,
Loom large in my brain.

I think about this lass,
Cynthia my hearts' nurse,
Images forms about us,
How I scored as she pass.

I love my daring doll,
For she spares my soul,
Even after the world tells her all,
Choreographed to make us fall.

I love to hear her giggle,
And smile with her innocent face,
Face full of live ,love and hope,
That surely reads clean tommorow.

Every time she talks I get touched,
By her utterance that sounds true,
She got a cute voice that merges ,
Her Immaculate nature .

The ardent ambition to succeed,
Is second to her nature,
'er shy look and reservedness,
Proves that she is my malkia.

Chebet come with a ring,
You be our witness on this thing,
Come along with your king ,
We celebrate all as we sing .

A Peregrine Falcon circled the vast expanse of grounds surrounding the huge manse in Old Pasadena. It soared, looking for a favorable tree to land upon. Rabbit hunting. The bunnies loved to crop the grass growing on the expansive lawns.

The bright wind played windchimes of the leaves of the trees, a lilting, rustling sound barely heard above the birdsong of midmorning in Pasadena. A normal morning in every way. But not for Sir Arthur Barrett. Nor his murderer.
   Lord Arthur's heels beat a tattoo on the Persian rug in his library. His hands first scattered the pieces of the puzzle he'd been working on, then grasped at his throat, constricted as it was by the plastic bag stretched across his face and neck. The muffled sound barely heard over the cacophony of birds...

---  

   The old mansion where Lord Arthur met his violent demise was named Puzzle Tree Mansion, in part by the many Puzzle Trees growing on its property, but that was not the only reason. The entire mansion was a puzzle.
Every room of it. Each had a secret. A false bottom drawer. A secret passageway. You even had to solve a riddle to work the bidets in the bathrooms! In short, it was a puzzle, within a riddle, within a conundrum. Sir Arthur had loved it that way. He had, in his lifetime been a writer of mysteries. The author of arguably the most popular American mystery... The Monkey
Puzzle Box.

The Odd Narrative

Steamed up window my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest and a lake; the peak cries into
                   the lake it becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, are made into wooden rafts floats.
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to Himalaya,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses gallop,
                                   flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.    

The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
                                     is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgot,
                                     he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he  puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s    belly: “without you,” he murmurs
                                    “I would truly be alone.”

you were more
than the mayhem of letters
displaced in a word
that slipped and rode
from syllable to syllable
on the tip of my tongue.

you were more
than the amorphous utterance
I blurted at midmorning
in the futile hope
that you would notice
how much I meant it.

you were more
than a singer could sing
or a painter could paint
the lucid core
of my labyrinthine feelings
escaping my tangled words.

you were more
than every scrawled page in my diary
than the path to my heart
or the strength of my soul
than the cosmos and the stars
my universe in a person
you were my poetry:

and that is more than anyone can ever be.

The humming of the cast ,
the plop of the bobber
Boyhood daydreams of -
landing a whopper
The cork begins to dance then -
it quickly goes under
The game between angler -
and fish has begun
A flash of the quarry as the
rod bends over double , maybe a bass ,
a perch or a 'channelcat' enticed
to strike from deep down in the -
pond bottom rubble
Give the fish two feet then -
pull back three , heaving left to right in the-
midmorning heat
A final tug at lands end ,
"I've banked a crappie" , proclaims -
a proud young man
A krill filled with every type -
of fish the pond had to offer
Thoughts of bream , coleslaw -
and hush puppies for supper ...

-

Midmorning dew amidst evergreen,
Nestling pearls in mead serene.
Charcoal in bough in silhouette,
Lyrical fay in coronet.

Dusted with buttercups crowning blades,
Pale blue, mauve, bird serenades.
Hidden beauty in flourishing bloom,
Ambience unruffled divine attune.

Flutter of butterflies’ delicate in flow,
Blossom and flora and fauna in grow.
Trees in groves caress the skies,
Nature in beauty rhapsodized.

Icicles

Icicles drip in the midmorning sun
Like a Saline bag feeding your arm.
Intravenous emotions that fill my veins
While my heart has cause for alarm.
My frosty exterior matches the scene
That I observe through a window of mist.
My demeanors unsteady, like walking on ice
Around the edge of a virtual abyss.
Thoughts of the future while denying my past
Relying on forgiveness and repent.
Making a list, of often unwanted gifts
A waste, of the money I have spent.
Another drip falls from the cold icicles
Vanishing, once it hits the ground.
Wasting away, like we all will one day
To a silence, that's serene yet profound.