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).