Hiding the starving poems of my psyche
stuffing them down fragile green necked
aluminum mouths foaming up over
jaded cries for intelligence lingering
and are loathed
personally.

Tasted fire, blue Kool-Aid, tryptamine
in my drink finding a seat while on the bumper
someone hung from a smoking cigarette
gesticulating  in a foreign rhythm
lips sync
out of.

Highway headlight twinkling with
gasoline drive-shaft incandescence
going buzzed backwards sitting
on a bed of thorns; a truck
dreading the pitiful holes
of an untended freeway.

Afterwards
victories to despair
bound to tender purging
supposing red cups
will release us all to
blacked-out porcelain heavens.

Your name is my name
in that we both have one
containing letters stretched
over unrelated faces in time
until syllables are pulled from
intentions turned to antiques.

Does the reader see the labyrinth
each word holds to craft meaning
depending on what comes first
waiting for what happens next.

Searching for a pretty shape
the pattern to break a mold
set in stone before each writer
whittling away their minutes
minds blind to the situation
trying to hide its fearful symmetry;
each form crafted creates it’s own mold.

There’s this red head
sitting next to me
hiding a blue koi fish
tattooed behind her left ear.

My thoughts turn back to falling
******* dropping hanging off some
errant lotus foot bouncing those ****.

Now subconsciously desperate
trying to censor what’s been encoded ******
or too much or even sexist even though
natural impulses have been programmed
to fire automatically.

Blameless and constant
silent and don’t you worry
*they’ll call you.

Look!
There I go
once again
stumbling for the
words.

Snow on the ground
tears in your eyes
Late Thanksgivings trimmings
being made with a
bit of melancholy
Bittersweet
but bittersweet
is sometimes best.
The sweet is all
the more
        well,
sweet.

Head my words
Read my lips.
The snow is falling
for someone.
I didn't know him
well, and I
could tell
he didn't know me
either.
Alas,
no more;
a quiet death.

A night like no
other.
I can focus
but
too long and
it won't seem
real.
The cat
with its swish-
swoosh,
tick-tock,
long flicks
of its tail.
There's only rain
out there
fat cat.
There is
a movie on
but none
of what I'm
seeing
is my thing.
There's a name
that keeps
coming up,
somewhere on the
internet
and in my
head.
I can see it;
details about
the person,
the kind we
don't
think we
notice.
It builds
an incomplete picture.
The kind that's
biased.
You don't know
how you
feel
or
think.

Ah,
the days when we would
run and frolic and
not hide from the sun.
When our silent, unknown
motto was "melanoma be ******!"
I enjoyed those carefree,
ignorant summer days.
They will never be back.