People look for the fountain of youth
But I am a fountain of words

I wield them like weapons
They slip from my grip
I spend them like bills
They steep me in wealth
I tuck them in my pockets
They spill from my lips
I give them as gifts
They stick in my teeth
I kiss them on cheeks
They slide down my throat
I stack them on shelves
They pile at my feet
I pack them in boxes
They stain my sheets
I burn them to ashes
They pow-

I hope you get it because
This **** is endless and
I forgot where I was going with this

I like words.
Each is often imperfect alone
But the skill lies
In stringing them together
In just the right order
In just the right way to convey
The galaxy in my mind.

I like words.
They stick smooth to my brain
Like the thinnest decoupage
Every inch neatly covered
Every crevice every crack
Every layer after
Every sheer layer.

You asked me my name in your first remark
We sat on opposite ends of a question mark
You were dashing - made me pause,
me, this independent clause
standing alone,
I made sense on my own
But I answered you anyway.

Ellipses.

Now you are the verb in my heart’s contraction
I am the subject and you are the action
An Interrogative with a Declarative reaction
An Exclamatory and then an Imperative attraction

Ellipses.

Your lips ease
Me, the direct object of your affection,
but never sentenced to an apostrophe’s possession
perhaps more true- a plural “s” suggestion
and the excitement behind an exclamation point’s inflection

The semi-colon understands
We can be on our own, but we want to stand
together
where our letters
aren’t fetters,
but the typesetter’s
better measure
of linguistic pleasure.

We communicate through metaphors and similes
Like the birds and the bees
We speak across homophone lines
to keep a census of our senses at all times
Because words said aloud have allowed
us to find meaning behind the utterance of sound-
mere words and phrases
jumping off of pages
into brain and heart and soul
when the parts become a whole

And with the syntax, punctuation, grammar, and usage
I’m a hopeless semantic always trying to ****** it
Language- yours I understand through the myriad.
Words can’t capture you. Period.

So at that very moment
That very instance
Time was enclosed
Produced on film
Black and white
From an antique rolleiflex

Obsolete in nature
Yet, oddly charming
And on that very parchment
Time was encapsulated
Stored for reminiscing

This picture is not worth
        a       thousand      words
Only a simple phrase
             that  summed    up
    fractions of a second
      
Time was frozen
To a terrific photograph
From an antique rolleiflex

To the English-speaking people of earth:

When you speak of new year's, do not mention resolutions.

We need to make up our **** minds about what we want: a beginning, or an end? How can something you just started be resolved already?

I know it's all in the wording, that it's YOUR resolve as a person we're talking about, but I think we're doing ourselves a disservice with this syntax.

I have no resolutions for this new year. My resolutions are gone, done with, vanished, they have already passed into the great and vast "past". You can have my resolutions.

As for me I'll hang onto my goals, my wishes, my aspirations for what this next cycle of days and weeks and months will bring.

I will defy the movement of language
With syllables soft before the snow
For Autumn in the fewest chosen words
Along lines of simple alphabets

In the palm of my listening
I will observe you walk as a poem
Skips across ethereally this earth
With colors and bodies of Christmas

An instantaneous impression of beauty
I will sing a lullaby to the irreproachable sky
And kiss the poem-greeting letters
That dissolve as a soul among the trees

And the centre of music
That is a living expression of the times
Today the sun comes out in your poem
And I listen for the poem I will write in reply

I will be a hero of a recluse today, again
With an inner smile of jewel-pointed clarity
That the imagination is a universal thing
The night’s sheerness of black gardens

A voice from which religions spring
Spiritual movement completes itself
In an intuitive release of meaning
A letting go of the sadness of having come

And gone, like death, poetry takes me there
As a river of music, entering my blood
Chilling me with a serotonin symphony
The joy of being here, the glances and reflections

Of existence, mirroring poetry
Between silence and music
The snow and sun, men and women
The rain and drums stalk my fantasies.

You find the reason to everything and anything because
it makes you feel safe, but I
--can't kiss you without you
wanting to tell me that
my eyelids flutter because my eyes
get dry and they need to protect themselves from all the
pathogenic **** that flutters around me but I'm
really just trying to get a better look at you,

why don’t you let me look at you.

Then I begin to cry and you say why tears are tears,
and that you wanted a “simple life” with me  but
youre too busy identifying the complexity of things
that you can’t even feel because they lay within your heart, not your hands.

I’m right in front of you but your
voice begins to raise and you speak the science of presence
and you tell me that i’m your soulmate because your subconscious doesn't always feel so alone when i’m standing right beside
you and that you need me to survive but you
can't always kiss me because you’re too busy saying that the reason why
I think you taste good
when you kiss me is because
we meant are for each other.

While I’m in your arms you begin to analyze
my paragraph of life and how
it fits so perfectly beneath yours.
But then you rearrange your words
and place some in between mine
and then I realize I’m the just the loosely placed parenthesis around your
syntax of life.