the specking drone of

fluorescent lights

ungrip flies, from

their ribs.

upside down on

neat slabs--that

decide to flicker

a bone.

with hospital

expulsions of light.

He's selling,
His story,
For fame and glory.
Letting everyone in,
As his soul pours out.
How can you let then unknown,
Sweep into the darkest part,
Of your heart?
I'd call you a sell out,
But your only spreading the word.
I'd ask for you to shut up,
But you should never take the wings off a bird.
Maybe your just so real now that you appear to be fake,
Specking so calculated,
Singing to be heard,
It makes me mad somehow,
Isn't that absurd?

I am the same way you know,
But of course you know that.
You look up to me as inspiration,
When I am really just a disgusting damp bat.
Reclusive and in hiding,
I hate to show I care.
I could have gone with you to that place,
If I wanted to share.
I rather lock my feelings up,
And scream in a sound proof garage,
Then to share my close thoughts to strangers,
Who don't know who we are.
I don't want fans,
I just want to cool down.
Writing and living,
Making my own sound.
My own secret,
For my very few to enjoy.
Because no one wants to be aware,
That I am just an innocent boy.

If sharing is caring,
Then I guess I don't care for myself at all.

He has
Been usurped by barley before
Golden blades
Which willingly widen at the base
Specking and neighing before Euclid’s geometry
Teetering his terrible truth
Before the teeth of the combine

She is
Surrounded by myths of family
Sustained in that old fermentation
What she has is a rare cask
What she wants is a rare cut
What she is offered is not a rarity
What she accepts is the controlled spoilage
Over flowing her half empty glass

He appreciates
This auburn sharpness
Swaying before the wind
As it is bathed at the basin of the sink
Soaked in hydrogen peroxide
Looking at life’s vapid revelations
of her un-shucked past

She expects
To be a queen away from constant cultivation
Though eventually she will be taken from behind
Plucked from some store bought husk
One size too small
The only one left looking ahead
She will then proffer an ultimatum
Sitting atop the protruded spine
Where she will grind out the imperfections of man

He sleeps
As sleeps go
Nestled into that heathered silo
Flecked and bereft of material
Here is
A rest incomplete
Somnambulist upbringing
Allowed for somnambulist #adulting
A paralyzed gasped
Waking to the ghosts & ghouls
That grew deeply from her fertile soil

She dreams
As dreams go
Bestowed princes atop sterling steeds
Bellowed ball gowns
Broken into fables and bandaged brothers
Threshing out appendages
Screaming to be lengthened
Put up on the bar to build the perfectly sculpted ***
A reminder of an imperfect personality
A relationship is the constant reminder of compromise
He will not always make her ***
But more often than she cares to admit
She will always go

Your old card,
"You're My Person"
creases in my hand.

The note is so sweet
it ruins me; my nose
spots blood, I cry so hard.

Even if I put it down
& only touch it
with my mind

it wrecks the afternoon,
a hammer-handle
between the eyes.  

Yet I can't even file it away,
still less remove the pastel
from the black chess mantel.

It's part of me,
stowed deep in the heart,
like a blade the doctors
are afraid to remove.

I also sent cards,
filled with adoring scrawl,
Turkish slices,
raw pianissimos of love.  

I wonder if they split you, too.
I don't know what we are,
only how I feel -

you are the root
of gladness.
My hair still burns

when I think of you.
I am committed to the dark
chancels of your thoughts.

I may be shackled to the white blot
of Washington, but the blood
specking whorl and loop
erupts from Dublin.

Consider this, then,
another card,
sent to you across
cerulean cavity

all the way to your
necklace of river.  
You're my person.

As always, my honey,
I close with
kisses and hugs,

knots and crosses:
"xoxoxo"