I'm scared of this world because people can find clarity in delusions
I'm in love with this world because people can find happiness in excuses
In just a grain engrained
In their intestinal brains
I'm scared of people because emotions are illogical
I'm in love with people for the same reason
I'm scared of myself because this is human
I'm in love with myself

spherical tension.
A cord, a wire
For which I have many names
That I can never seem to speak.
That orbital nature of my being, that
For reasons chemical,
Sparks fires of color and creation one moment,
And consumes light the next
In a glorious ecstasy of oblivious self envy.
They are the same moment.
The fire and the light are one.
Where one crystal facet lies in the dirt,
Covered in musk
And shadow,
Another face of the same crystal
Shines blindly
With light,
And reason.
Balanced perfectly.
All beings are orbital.

I've put so much meaning into
colors,
and books,
and those looks.
the wide-eyed conversations
without words;
your consolations
go unheard
because my ear holes are near full
of color.

I haven't been able to write
a sentence that
doesn't stop running
since I dyed my hair blue,
as if they're trying to get away
and I won't let them go,
even though I want to.

"I am," is the shortest
(and my favorite)
sentence in the English language.

I am a sponge,
and a nail,
and condensed water
on the inside of your car.
I am a warm tube
of chap-stick
in your left,
back
pocket.

I'm the green on your pennies.
The seams on your denim.
The way the blanket falls
when you finally decide to go take a shower
on an unusually cold morning.

I'm the power you find
in an old man,
or a cold can
of yellow paint.

I'm the sky above your head
on the day you kept your tongue in
because the rain was too
bitter.

I am a symbol,
no longer nimble.
I am a spark,
afraid of the dark.

you are blue
and I am green
I can't see
no in between

you are the moon
and I am a river
I wanted more
and you were the giver
I wanted life
and you were the liver
nothing is left
except for this sliver
of moonlight reflected
in the rips of the river
and the lips of the giver
were gave to the mute
who lost his voice
at the heel of a boot
digging up dirt
at a distance
and if for some reason
he missed its
kisses
than he'd give the lips back
just for a listen

you are blue
and I am green
I can't see
no in between

When lovers write poetry
he writes it so reckless
says it's to let this
star come out
to smile and not cry
to whisper not shout
to ask how and not why
to shoo away doubt

that's what it's about

When lovers write poetry
she writes with her lips
says it's for this
and for him
and for kiss
and to swim
in abyss
to keep away the dim
by being missed

it's some sort of bliss

I'd like to begin
by pointing out the color of the walls;
the pink under the plaster,
and the tubes,
red and blue,
that keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are always open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters are pulled closed
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic.

the fire place is a grand face
of grout and proud brick
cradling the humblest coals
under his black, stuffy nose
clogged with no longer solid logs.
His breath keeps the attic warm,
with the help of the coals,
who ask for no thanks.

I'd invite you in
if it wasn't for the moss on the threshhold.
That emerald green.
Those gems that seem,
with dew, to gleem  
a blue and gold sheen
of umpteen citrines.
The sun's careen is seen by these
green finger leaves.

When I turn out the lights
and retreat to the attic,
I hear the moss sigh
like some sort of static.
Her breath reaches the crest
of my gentle home's breast.
The ceiling beam shudder
with a reeling like no other;
A sound that makes me cry,
while my cluttered attic comforts me,
and I speak no word but why.

The moss,
she makes me cry.

I'd like to end
by pointing out the color of the windowpanes,
and the gray of the drywall.
The tubes,
red and blue,
still keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are rarely open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters flutter open
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic,
and the colors.

Sometimes I scream
****!!!
at the clouds...

and you never seem to hear me
until they release it
in a thousand
wet
whispers