A Knowing Secret; No, A Growing Regret

Whilst this knowing breath, creeping upon

That knowing death, is but the thought of Us

Is, but the thought of Us

Is less than worthy of Us to imagine.

And so he scurries

Away, and tomorrow will be another

Like the brothers he left in May, would it matter?

Or would it, "matter",

If it is something that is here

Start to decay before we could put it to

Resting place

And tomorrow, it's the thought of Us

And the thought of Us

Is less than worthy of Us to imagine

And to imagine

Is just to decay.

Little Butterfly Stories

M(r)s. Mountain Skies fills her breath with
cold, dead butterflies. Like a chimney stack,
blowing off her purple back is that memory she left
when the winter came, currently sipping away
at a blue river bank--in a large enough city
that only she could relate.

(Can you escape?)

So I stand beside it, with tree-trunk arms
I can barely touch the stony floor of that rushing
flood-of-a-fountain. With eyes shut tight,
I can feel again the hushness of her hues, those
peaks and the crisp perfume underneath
that blanket of ice sheet.




And to be still.
And to be absolutely still.
It's a skill.




My charm is lacking, but my honey bees
know when to bring me to her,
leaf by leaf,
broken, maybe,
but happy



listening to all your butterfly stories.

You Are Nostalgia, And I Fight To Not Stay Awake

You would make me write poetry again.

With leaves tacked to my wall, you would make me

whole again. Jack's mannequin

and the crisp of your nose, the air and that mixed tape you made for me.

Your new perspective.

Did we share that tea for us, or

for something bigger than our heads? Like a new page,

you then floated at me, and I was a turtle.

Our cowardly eyes were mocked, and beaten,

but you were still alive.

We loved love and hated fate,

skipping the dates and having sex next to fans. I cried

like you did, and you might not now

and I don't either, but we're not blind to the wind.

My car had so many miles left to go, and I

can't wait to use them to flower up another house

with that book open.

Like a poem, it ends, but doesn't.

Mindful Eyes

It's mistaken for a deep emotional connection
and the scientists look on--

to give reason to sorrow, or
overwhelming joy--

its just math, and the chemicals,
just borrowed.

Pleasantry, a simple suitcase head,
composed of dirty laundry,
sour like the sweet pastures of
lovers,

taking notes.



Like I could snatch a flight
or look away from the curious glow
there, that
is seaching through my luggage,
but I can't.


No,

God, I can,

I just never pack enough for tomorrow.

All My Friends Should Get Out

I feel a rupture in my veins
and it's vanity, I say. Bottom's up, tail between.
(No,) I can't stand to speak. Wag a little, bones are brittle
'cause I swallow all the song birds in their nests,
yellow-breasts,
just like one big fucking mess.
Tweeting Toddlers In My Stomach
Fleeting, Fondling And They Love It
like the motions that we flow with,
like an ocean that we grow with. It's a carnival of showmanship, to
be that person, we know it (and we knew it, and we love it
and we still love you, fucking dimwit).
Be that person, fucking sleep.
And Don't Make A Fucking Peep (Just Kidding).

He Could Never Imagine

Lips moving and biting chocolate-covered strawberry

halves, but while the music beckons us to sing

I sit quietly and think. This life,

it's a little too short for my taste. I sleep awake

and toss my dreams into the trash.

Why should I see the things that never happen?

I take another sip from my can. I can't sing well but

that doesn't stop the others from trying. Maybe

I'll give it a shot. Maybe there's a little left in my cup.

Single

Single in the city, like highway virginity
likes highway puzzles

construction / reproduction

viral pities and pot holes,
the warm sweat on your neck
(it's like) back to back traffic. dog's tongue hangs out, and

stained like
coffee on a shared
receipt

outside, sweet bistro. (it's like)
fool's gold on my teeth.

the music venue

sex-stringed guitar/my head
fall, up and out, up and out
to the noise. it's dirty and
the people are magazine cut-outs
dragged out of my head, up and out of here.
tramp stamped on my right hand like i'm some kind of criminal. they start
to play, stop, give a little more to this one, perfect.
i'm perfect, i say,
when my eyes are closed. up and out
go my inhibitions. i pretend like situations turn out differently
or that i'm on a wonder drug. but then i wake up and out.
take a taxi home
and eat the rest of the peanut butter.

affair

we are the silhouette's best shadow.
the great silent.
stitched between black and blacker,
our lips stick
permanent.


the hardwood floor--
it tastes of vinegar
and nothing more.

Moon

Burn out

a bulbed cylinder yellow/white and

suspended from air

in a little gray shadow above my table.

Provides momentary blindness

that scares my pupils and invites

my whites/blues

from across the room. She stares.

I put it to my lips

and pretend like I was the moon.

Cratered and crackled, a broken path

and I can't see how that's appealing. Well,

I ended up buying drinks. Must be the new thing.

Cickle

Seu Seu, quack little
duckll-ling, quack
doctor. Jonez people
they-------------------------
----------------------------lie
in BED zzz...zzz...zzz...zzz...zzz...
...zzz...zzz...sleep...zzz...zzz...zzz.

Wine

Wine

con artists and connoisseurs--in the same body.

Rich, mahogany.

Sweet and dry like their insides, but

sips with chiming glass

shatter. In broken tables

laughing about the splintered pedestal

they sit, and sit, and sit

until they sip so unsoberly

it really doesn't matter.

birds

the globe spins on its head

and spin it silly, silly peeps popping up

to get first breaths, momma birdie

play tweet and regurgitate insight.

emotions. 

with a chirp chirp

another baby booming speakers. in

its pod it sits, hatched and broken

with shell splinters pickled in alcohol.

collections.

dip and dive with

chickies singing sorrys, wedding

bells and babies calling into being

born with first breaths. regurgitate

or

lay in bed.

Fresh

Every word you speak
is fresh
like the farmer's market.
I am a boy and
an apple is red, with moist
skin; it sits.
Like autumn's 30 days. Like the boy
who sits.
Whistlers tune their grandfathers' melodies
with sticks and berries. Red
apple juices in their fragile hands.
Andrew plays his grandfather's lips,
sings
red-handed.
Every note is fresh.

Myself

"Can I bake you a ring?"

Said the pastry's chef

to his beloved king's queen.

No reply, only a map to Noway.

I wanted to talk to him, myself, because

it looks so much prettier outsigh--

the flours, they grow out there.

You'd think he was an oven.

You'd think he had a plan.

You'd think, but you've had

just enough to drink,

young man.

College

Lick my fingers, sweet, dry berries in clear cups spilled in red parties, swimming against the current wet topics and full beards, eating and drinking your body so silly, tickle the thought process in bed with lights dimming down instead, quiet the scene and pour me something so soberly.

The Subway

Subway fingers grip many metal
materials
and books to provide havens.
From being in boxes,
I see how they think.
It's the smell of sweet detergents
and fresh rain on dripping umbrellas
that makes us family
for 20 minutes of solitude,
in our aquariums that are speckled with
sweat and dried food, lost music
and breath.
In novel terms, it's nothing unnatural
but I still wonder why
they don't just talk to each other.

Doctor

Chemical imbalance and

my best man

work hand-in-hand to fuck things up

in my head-in-head

we think of reasons to doubt and shallow out

really awful plans.

It comes with the contract. My

pen, it

can't write anymore

and I've decided that I'll live in this apartment

apart from the chaos that I created, hand-in-hand with

my head-in-head.

Just go to bed

they said, they said.

The Band

You beat more than you can bite.

A sand pedal, and the shells clash accordingly

to the sound

                      of it

with wet fingers, I slip my mind

into your tender bathing suit and swallow

your insides. I see your heartbeat

beat beat beat and more than you can bite.

The dock is lit

and I am still.

Susie

Susie

wrote it on my hand

four zero eight - eleven eleven

left before seven

ate the rest of the Wheaties

and smoked your photograph

pretty

Hypocrite

You scream sorority and
cry out for Greek letters--to paint your lips
wet, smoking out spells and living under tunnels
with the graffiti in your back pocket.

All a letter for endorsement into what
you aren't,
and better than who you are now.

But I'm just the poetical hypocrite.
My faults,

they're limited to where I sleep
and the number of pillows I lay beside my shapeless
shapeless
body.

I am Play-Doh and my face is handsome and girls touch it
and it's strange and not planned but 
I wish only one person liked me
so it wouldn't be so difficult to
be so

unoriginal.
Our photographs, mattress,

or your necklace with a receipt
is all I am.