Man about house,
king of composure,
cleanliness, charity-

backfired or
minimal return.

All above or none at all—
thoughtful disposer,

I keep a clean cage.

Like a sunrise after
too much coffee. When
hangover is gone,

or punching you
in the face.

Eyes protected, because
this poem is about sunrise,

and I am of punctual nature,
a procedure that must occur.

An option to defer,
a referee and an ounce of

hurt, yet a
comfortable situation.

I never want to get burnt again.
White doves no desire for them

if they cost too much or manipulate economy.

Beg my pardon, I am stressed and mean no harm.

Twist my arm I fold when I fold
and right now I am holding on.

what cure can be found in a band-aid but to slowly heal,
be it a small enough wound.

A large disaster, a surgical mind,
a black hat, perhaps?

Hero, villain, that is what I am,
a man—

Medication.

"Google! Tell me
what time it is."

Another frenzy, or
take it to go.

Out of pocket, or
on the other hand lavender:
a protection breed.

Go away
goosebumps
caressing my
sanctum,

allow blessed to
restrict silliness, rapping
monstrously at my door,

restricted outcomes
in all dire obsessions,

bleak outlets, and placid
outcries.

An inkling to keep going,
told to rest.

Out of the fire,
quick! into dawn—

passion,
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt,

curtains turning gold
from yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead,
swallowed up.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush,

a hole in the path
could take away our
chances,

but magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?

Our lives
are like cardboard
boxes,

there's only so much
they can retain.

If the pressure's
too great

it will break,
shattering what's
inside.

I loved you
like childhood,

but I guess
we all have to grow up
sometimes.

Wanting to go back to sleep
I argue with the sun,

bed sheets mimicking rude hand
gestures—

and already, these
coiled memories are unraveling themselves

like intestines from a soldier's
stomach.

I write better
with a little something
stuck to my heart,

latched on for dear
life, trying not to lose
grip, be forgotten.

Sometimes I’ll let it
hang, just to feel the pull,
and eventually it will

climb back up,
like a cat coming home
for food.

And sometimes, my
brain, it says

“Hey! Have you
forgotten about me,
or something?”

But, I say no, because
none of these words

would actually
make sense, otherwise.

Just random blotches
of red ink, and illogical

patterns would stain
this page.