the earth will always be there for you.
although sometimes it shakes, for now, it is still and you may sit or stand or lay on it for as long as you'd like. and if you stay there long enough you may feel gravity gently tugging you lower, lower,
lower into the earths core to rot
for we are all simple satellites orbiting the earth; born high in arms and strollers we slowly learn to crawl, walk, run, limp, walk again, hunch over in age -- and no matter how many airplanes we ride high in the sky, everyday we are dragged a little more, sagging a little bit more, into death of the earth and of the bones. gravity is a constant reminder that one day our parents put us down and never picked us up again, and that soon enough the earth will drag our bones into the soil and earth from whence we came.
for it was there, in you, in birth; and soon you will be there, in it, in death.

It came quickly, roots
broke through marbled concrete

And vines draped off
balconies of skyscrapers

Floor to ceiling windows
disappeared behind ivy

Some beasts melted into shadows
around the corner as their
barks were adopted
by the wind and pushed
in strollers by the howl
and the cold bite

In the air, you could hear
unattended car alarms

And neon signs flickering
on and off as they hum like
a deathbed, EKG flat-line

Hanged stoplights
swayed back and forth
off streetlight arms
bent like telekinetic spoons
spinning like criminals
left on olive trees to die

And the drab color seemed
strangely magnetic and
right
I can swallow a pretty big storm

Tick Tock* Strikes
The Clock. Their Numbers
Numbers Mocking Impure Me
Wishing For The  Time To Pass Me By.
Women, Men, Children Question Infidelity
Teens On The Side Smoking Cannabis With No
Absolute Care. Little Children In Their Strollers
Tugging On Their Silky Strands Of Shiny Hair.
If Only I Was One Who Could Live With No
Care. I Watch Time Move Ever So Slow.
I Wish I Knew The Worse Of Me.
As The Time Then Freezes.

sailboats at anchor
rocking slowly to and thro
small dogs barking high
frisking down the seawall
passing nannies and strollers
till i chase them back again
ringing my bicycle's bell
swooping around the corner
laughing in the wind

As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.

The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.

The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.

As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.

I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.

More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.

As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.

I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.

It was quick, fleeting, and will always be remembered,
It filled this inner void I had, but left me dismembered,

It was a feeling I craved, The one I lusted after,
For what it’s worth it wasn’t the worst or some kind of ultra disaster,
It hasn’t hurt anyone, well I’m sure she wishes she could forget faster,
But I will never forget this page out of a dangerous chapter,

It has my favorite quote,
My favorite hope,
My favorite thought about getting lost and experiencing a desire to cope,

There won’t be days in february where she gets flowers,
There won’t be strollers, weird reunions or baby showers,
There won’t be scrapbooks, letters, or home made meals to devour,
There will be sleepless nights and well spent hours,

She may not want a relationship but she made me feel love when I needed it most,
I want to feel pressure from her fingertip but have to settle for thoughts of when they were close,

Was it a make up - make out it sure didn’t feel that way?
Was it a wake up call if so it didn’t work out that way,

I feel like it was the perfect decoration,
The way we locked into the perfect formation,
Cliche poems written about how it was salvation,
Are my summation or translation
Of working out the equation,
That being real... I was thirsty and needed ******* hydration,

But you love me,
Well that feels really nice.

I spent hours up late trying to figure out if you did,
Thought about the small stupid things I should change about the way I live,

6, 5,
This is where I should say I love you and I would never lie,
But rather, the us line would be about our *** drive,
The back of a van, folded down seats, Ed Sheeran playing through the night,

Funny how I always write about a memory,
It’s like I wait for the right day to listen to the words of this inner me,
Wait for the right time to reignite our synergy,
Moments with little action, a lot of adrenaline pumping into energy,
Promises to make sure we aren’t alone when we are elderly
Speaking in private, I want to talk to you really but it always becomes generally,
Except for those nights with sand and stars I remember so tenderly,
Flashes of what could never be,

But is that the truth. I don’t ******* think so.

I don’t think that is the case,
I think with a little faith the sixth could live to the eighth,
And the eighth could go on further into time and space,
Sure we would have less patience, less “nice” lies, less grace,
But I feel the embrace was a showcase for what could take place,
I don’t want breathing space let alone breathing room,
This isn’t a proposal, I’m not asking to be a groom,
This isn’t a disposal of throwing away what is now to doom,
But without being boastful, We would’ve been the perfect match and epic in the bedroom.

I have no idea what this piece is supposed to mean I just knew I needed to write it,
Kinda like I knew I should’ve kept my hands to myself but I didn’t fight it,
I think back to sand filled jackets and wondering if that was the night I should’ve quit,
But I never gave up even though now I understand that marked under ridiculous never-happenings is the fact we might kiss,

Friends,
It’s fine, Playing pretend,
Waiting for your mind and my heart to mend,
Like a accidental picture you didn’t mean to send,
Or a series to finish so you can finally place the bookend,
Or a lousy boyfriend, Hey I know a guy,

Who would wake up in the middle of the night head in the sky,
His “life story” slowly becoming a long lie,
Nearly sweating to death feeling choked by his bowtie,

At the tournaments where you seemed preoccupied,
There were those special moments where we locked eyes,

But honestly I don’t know how to feel anymore.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to write.

I don’t know what we are.

I need to hear your opinion, your thoughts formed into words,
I need to hear which one of my thoughts you thinks hold worth,
I need to hear your laugh and tell me which are stupid,
To quit acting like a love struck kid,

Tell me to grow up, shut up, relax,
Get out of being lost but how can I without the map?

Cliche as ****.

Yeah,

It’s what happens when you spend all night writing trying to find the words to say to you only to delete them over and over again until you get to the point when you start writing so much and you just want to flood out all the emotions until you have nothing left so you can finally fall asleep only to have those dreams be fantasies and burn into night terrors full of hate and swearing and ….

Me without you.