an atrophied mind slumped over in a skull fatigued
waits for something to believe in.

too late

a forgotten stranger had his
loneliness eclipsed
we a pair of heartbroken vagabonds
affixed by fateful
moonbeams thumbing reality's cold keys
while clipping wings of
warmed romantic whims.

Conspiracies and your rants
From underneath the table

She’s disappointed
Abandoned can she be saved?
Thirty and still home

A dim future haunts the youth
Be alive or practical

Talents are wasted
Reality forgets us
And we avoid it

Spitefully you stole our things
To try to remember us

Little creatures crawl
The family heirloom broke
Dreary white lilacs

The denim pants don’t fit
Stop, the step is giving out

Horses side by side
You had reupholstered the chairs
Ticking metronome

A swarm of insects with wax paper wings,
Chanting Cicadas, used to sing to freedom
as we inspected the corners of the wooden swing set
built by our father’s innovation, in the warmth of August.

Little shells of creatures,
testing our courage,  and the agility of plump legs
should we have the misfortune
of finding one that had stayed behind.

I can’t remember ever, obediently
respecting my mother’s orders to come back inside.
But I must have, foolishly thinking she knew what was best
allowing the past
to tumble towards this present.

Had anything been up to me, I would still be outside
safe, the set has been swing-less for a while now.
Just a yard of decaying metal bodies; memories.
Those, which are only accidentally revisited.

The closest I will ever be to the sky now
is within these four blue walls, which were originally purple
but one morning I woke up, taking myself too seriously
not much else.  

Loneliness regretfully watches the sun sink
heavily behind a cheap, plastic fence.
Sitting on the cold neck of a rusted basketball hoop.
Another day insignificant enough to ****.

I hear everything and nothing at all, all at once.
This body, as useless as a swing-less swing set
as hollow as the cicada’s shell.
Youth can only bend so far, until it snaps.
And all you are left with
is the noise inside your head.

You are welcomed by nature’s palette of greens, blues, reds
All anticipating your arrival.
Outstretched trees embrace the blue of the dome’s surface,
thinning towards the end of tired arms.
Their necks crane, hollowing out the bark bodies,
directing attention fully to the main attraction
They too have the desire to see beyond the blanketed canvas,
but roots anchor them to earth’s rugged scalp.

Wisps of golden hairs age the endless carpets of green,
as they dance against the breath of an anxious wind.
A weathered bench stands passively at the cliff of the horizon
unable to offer sufficient support to a wandering visitor.
The chatter of gossiping birds momentarily interrupts a calm silence
and is answered by the rustling of skeletal leaves

A kingdom of water bridges the gap between sky and land
Balancing an abandoned ship against its bodice
Mischievous white pansies race along its shore
occasionally dropping their silk heads in worship
whenever given a command from the sea.

Blue is for detachment, the lateral, the second thought
The dragonfly’s wing, that blue, the company of a shadow;
The curtain of dusk, the blue of solitude;
The blue of people, their blue hair;
The abandoned blue of loss;
Astute blue, foreseeing who wakes and who sleeps;
The blue of blue jays, one tear of a fallen angel;
The blue of what is forgotten;
Blue of juniper, blue of sky;
The blue of rivers, the blue of fingertips;
The blue of feathers, their glossed barbs;
Poppy seed blue, recently harvested;
The blue of argon, the arm, the path to refuge;
Blue is for hope, a sanctuary, the final word;
The turtle’s back, that blue, the pulse of veins;
Wind chill, the blue of absence;
The blue of trees, their blue branches;
The paralyzing blue of fear.

His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***.
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass  
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September  
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff  
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.