i want to be light as a feather,
yes, floating and floating
over seas and beaches,
past sails and boats
the sun and the sea,
standing, watching,
glistening, staring
fluttering slowly
past children and birds,
yes, my destination unknown
thrown and carried throughout
streets, cities, gutters,
mountains, highways,
the gust of movement
letting go of everything
and always free
some let me be, some might
stick me in their hair
for beauty
where beauty is kept
but it is movement,
nonetheless,
and time goes
on.

centuries (older)

yes, i have written for the centuries,
their eyes so enclosed,
i have seen, their bodies warp
in unending fashion
that coil promoting
those blackened stars
their beams fuzzy
in the absence.
writing for all times,
a lonely drawl
sickeningly ironic
a very convenient
image to prove.
a hallucination
to which had
no barrier.
i have drunken the poison,
yes, 'the devil doth offer'd'
he has sat with his proposition
along porcelain tile
leather nests
spinning on their axis
with a certain inquisition,
a beckoning, 'broken or filled,
broken or filled!'
a time passes
everything
disappears
transience ensues
a helplessness
inevitable.

remember the days,
when the wind was cold,
and the bristle vibrations,
echoe'd that of a pine needle youth?
and your face was smooth,
and eager, and every movement
slid the nonchalance of stride?
and the adrenaline and blood
clothed the arteries with friction,
repelling the brisk breeze
of a winter south
and the innocence steamed from my throat
onto your window,
where we construed caricatures
made of wire and tape, erasable
evaporating, inevitable
translucent and tinted
amid a moonlight sun
where the eyes grew pale
and hair stung wildly?

and i remember you were there
with your skirt colorful
and legs smooth
my red blood and white wine churning
with shivering appreciation
all but speechless,
stomach a vacuum for words
while i gathered coins
and flipped for what to say
indecisive and indignant,
remember the days, babe,
remember the days..

it is these nights,
the minutes cozy up with the devil
the noses bleed with wide-eyed aspiration
the men sit in empty rooms with
large windows that look nowhere
and put their heads down on tables
covered in dust

breathe with me,
in, out, in, out
the respiration of city lights
coughing their rays on empty streets
while the metal men crawl the sidewalks
painting pictures with their veins
raccoon-eyed and possessed with hunger

and there is a dead lily that once sung me to sleep
there is an empty corridor in which i used to reside
there is a sun that will never know my name
and there is a flower that never grew

but it is these nights,
the glasses stay full until the queue of morning
the flames become immortal
the men solemnly speak
in their silence.

razorblade tricks
scraping bloodstained counters
receptors filled, vision blurred
flame induced euphoria
seeds of joy implode
happiness spurts, as a twitch of an eye
calmed, sedated,
as an ignited heart
doused in caress.
souls afloat evaporating oceans
these particles insufflated
by these nasal clouds.

red girls, red lipstick, crumbled wax paper
blue dotted brown fabric surrounding layers
of tissue. green men, spiky men, branchy bushes
impale hearts pale stringy reels of film.
records of purchase, pink eyed dreams
drink from pink stained vessels
communication electronically grey
wandered lost hopeless.
pressure through liquids, ripples through crevasses
hey sky her weather her dream
her soul steaming waters of life
evaporation and immaculation
silence through ignorance.
incoherently conscious of elder nights
retractable bars of chalk, knobs,
and levers and wires and rain.
an assumption previous creates present
incorrect. a nonsensical language,
we will regurgitate and prey upon,
pray as a woman doused in black.
indulging in gravity fully plump

scrape and mark these surfaces
as if your destruction belonged

a man's heart is too large


it is large enough to encompass a million seas

or a few disingenuous women


a man's heart is large enough to compose words,

and throw them out the next day


a man's mind would like to be larger

than a man's heart

but love is a feeling we pursue,

else we succumb to self-important drudgery


a man's heart is fragile,

moreso than a woman's


a woman is strong in her eligibility,

a man is weak in his reeling showcases, uncertain

but confident


the next time you see a man

quarreling senselessly

or quivering with bitterness,

in his solitude

remember-

his heart is too large

and he cannot figure

what to do with it.