Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.

I am a constellation
A baffling creation of unintentional art
A random selection of cells
That form no shape, no being

I am the outline in a child's activity book
Connect the dots
An undrawn picture
Of a previously imagined individual

We humans make pictures with the stars
We draw lines between the dots
We create pictures of the things we are familiar  with
Assuming one leads to two
Defining vast and undesigned constellations into images material possessions
Based only on their locations

I have been tracing the lines between the numbers
Drawing pictures of myself in the sky
Trying to define myself in a human way
Trying to find enough of myself to fill the outlines laid down for me

I cannot find the pieces
I cannot fit the shapes
The rigid lines between the stars
Drawn on your human map
Do not fit my soul
And cannot be filled with my mind
Too much and not enough simultaneously

I cannot be your connect the dot
I cannot find the proper path to the image you created of me
Cannot draw or walk or be the lines
You painstakingly wrote out for me to trace

For the lines you drew do not truly exist
You drew them there to make the inexplicable scattering of dots and stars more comprehensible
You wanted the Galaxy to be graced with familiarity

I am not familiar
I am simply a random selection of cells
Simply the dots
Simply the stars
With no images or meanings

all a'swoon in the peptides of our ivory
like mastodons marching delicate
or mountains of mayhem as a virtue.
an undesigned design
etched into the sphere of heaven
at the base of your skull
where the jewels to be found there
yammer the light fantastic
like sheets of chrome foam
through a funnel made of mint mist
and delusions of -
candor.

we mark the cave with our cellphone ping
and reap the things in the dark
that could brighten any room.
we have a knack for the impossible
but seldom sell glass beads to mermaids
we live in the kingdom of bent.
so therefore, the fork in the road is inevitable
and your utter lack of choice
a most universal thing.

songs will be sung about how we lived -
on the head of a pin... mending the fabric
of our isolation, and stitching the seams
of our bold stripes... where the whip cracked
and seared it's angry tongue across the back
of our forward thinking.
too engrossed are we, in the journey itself
to ever regain conscience.
we boil at room temperature. and we buy things -
that eat souls,
and have no word for snow -
that can also mean " cherry blossoms commit suicide"
and we sleep in the barn.

where haystacks bed down with stars
and you can still pick a lock
with a paper clip.
where all applause from the void-
visit like rain, all thunderous and good China
tilting on a blade of hope
in the very wheat fields of our daily bread
in the meadows of our irony.
where we salt the earth and continue to crop stones
in the spirit of our palace
wrought from years in exile
stacked to the roof of God's Mouth.
so He stutters your name
as clear as a bell.

and we shan't be consumed by surprise.

we will beguile.

When love beckons like the sorrow of red-crowned cranes
And the solidarity of midnight wolves
My heart is crowded with the temperature of your absence
Lordly attributes of mine just a vapid caricature
A castle of sands and a dry squid ashore I become
Who take your departure morbidly as punishment divine
Avowal of solitary life just at a modicum
I in a pit of sordid hell, made undesigned

She fed me love but I vomited

Trees are shedding their leaves
Trees are shedding their leaves