I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
nothing
inside me.

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug
burning
and turning over
back to back
to smack me sober

Let's make love
let's kiss and hug
and **** until
we get rid of
the liquid
that keeps us
from being released
and fitted
with riches
two gemstones apiece

let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug

did the owl overhead know it was an omen?

i've seen a man with feathers under his skin
he says that they are symbols
but I can't tell if he's truthful
and i think it's funny that
knowledge
is no different
than ink
or sound
inside boxes

I keep catching myself asking my friends if they
know what I mean
when i can't seem
to find words
i've never
even
seen

warning.

i may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
if I do, it is uncertain whether or not
i understand.

Be also aware,
that you,
although gifted with hearing well enough,
may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
when it comes to understanding,
one may only paint a picture
with the palate provided.

I don't age while i'm awake
but in my sleep my time is slipping
just the tracing of grooves
keeps the record for skipping
the ripping
of ripe red fruit from the branches
the juice sticking to
the teeth of
a woman
the romances!
the chances you take
are given freely
i love the moves you make
but you need only see me
to free me

so please
whatever you do
don't let me sleep

i want to take a picture of you
and in the picture, i want you to be naked
and there should be sweet smelling things
and though we won't smell them
we'll know because
we were there
we took the picture
and if we forget
the light smile on your lips
in the picture
will remind us

I've never seen something that wasn't reflection

To speak with movement,
as if our words were water.
All the hours you've spent
as the plotter;
the spotter of splits,
hiccups and missed bits
of info that slipped
out of sight
while we were
dancing.

Every spark flying from fires,
every dark moment conspired,  
by those discerning,
rising higher
in the burning
of books,
last looks,
and the things you took,
so as to
give them back again.

Drop your guns
but don't run.
Keep your feet
met with the deep
feelings that keep
you tethered
together.

Love like drums
is humming
inside empty buildings
with broken windows,
waiting.

It's just a thought,
but maybe this really is
as it seems.

Perhaps
the mountains
are truly mountains,
and the rivers
rivers.
A symphony of liquid,
notes called drops,
but you hear only one song.

It's possible
that light
is color,
because a broken thing
is still
itself.

All of the loose ends
might meet by chance
in a white room
when they find themselves
searching
for the beginning
again,
but
it's just
a thought.