Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together

The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries

It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem

Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 11, 2017)

It’s a world of too many institutions,
flybynights, everything for a squeeze,
students giving everything to the landlord,
a book, a visit to the doctor—
not everyone will survive it,
your hometown, your alma mater.

We live in interesting times.

The money movers, the bonds,
martyr retirees, the thrifty—
no money, no metaphors,
no synecdoches building up the edifice,
no icons, no engineering,  
no puzzlers or paradox,
just the conundrum of greedy ignorance
claiming an ever higher rent.

We live in interesting times.

Outside, the big mountain lays down his tail
beyond the cottonwood tree, hand to hand
we work this place, unassuming servants
under the sun. What does a simile cost?
A bridge, a salvage, a clarity?
What does deliverance cost?

We live in interesting times.

gossamers of golden silk
enriched with salt-water luster
sea-foam pebbles nestled between
warm sand freckles
gracing sunset skin

with a jolt
i wake and wish
silently to myself
for someone to just
put me out of my misery
there's no serenity in sleep
only an endless barrage of shifting
mirages half-glimpsed through
a looking-glass awaiting
my every whimsical
fear

consciousness is a hoax
a self-sustaining delusion
premised on confusing anecdotes
and misrepresented by inadequate
synecdoches that fail to convey
intended meaning

it is not difficult to trace the illustration
of truths that prove
at once illusory and immediate
deliberate attempts to assuage sentiment
before it returns in full force
terminate without consequence
since affection drowned in ambivalence

yet i somehow still
lack the cognizance to
be fully aware of my
own subconscious

We speak in riddles
With rhythms so ancient
You can’t tell where it begins
Or if it will it ever end
You wonder wisely
If perhaps this is where
It all starts over again
Perpetually reoccurring
Like dreams and nightmares
Or perhaps you might get lucky
Though it's highly unlikely
Unless you are a descendant
Of amorous deserts
And lonely riverbeds
So now we take our siestas
In the oasis of the heart
In a garden of short skirts
And even shorter circuitry
We perfected our learning
Yet even in our hurting
Hundreds of huddled soldiers
With tightly folded souls
And bullets embedded
In disincorporated bodies
Must tirelessly move onward
For you to grieve the leaves
Of yesterday’s disadvantaged

I, tired
synecdoches

For exhausted sadness.
I, fragmented animus,

(……….)Stilled air in a mutiny,
(……….)Sent afloat from mine eye.

I, aimless bounty
Missing bligh.

(……….)I, nimble crumbs,
(……….)Too mouldy and dry

To be scraped off the floor
Into bins, out of sight. I,

Too perilless,
Too stagnant

To die.
(I, tired)

My secrets are metaphors.
The words are artfully arranged in alliteration
Or cautiously halted in
Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves.

My secrets are anaphoric.
They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen.
Sometimes they are synecdoches,
Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again.

My secrets are anecdotes.
They write about themselves through personification.
This poem juxtaposes itself;
I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.