"I am in bliss with you," she said
"I long to kiss you, just not in my bed."
blinded bracing for the fall,
arms crossed as she bled
"Now I don't feel this at all"

Trees teach you ratios of breath
the warmth of awake
an un-read bounty in this,
quite clear off the bed, up to the wall.
I pull the dawn up to your ears upon their narrow folds
slowness of day creeps open,
finds us swirling with its golds.

there is something to be said for the way my fingers press on to the keys, the page, like a string of the simplest song that i know all of the notes by heart and feel them pulsing through my veins, my vines, this web of strings stuck spun and stung into my spine. when people refer to writing as an escape i think that's bullshit, this is the most in tune that these fingers of strings have ever become. the writing gets things going and makes connection(emotion), possible by relating these fires into words.. articulating my mental jabber, my thoughtless brain can finally speak and be thought about,have pages, own sentence structures and sizes and colors of fonts and autographs, these whispers of longing and exhilerated rush. i love this. i wouldn't settle for anything less than my fingertips orchestrating a slew of words that rips soul out of a place that i didn't know where it was until i had the time to write it all down. what a gift it is to appreciate simplicity, articulation, sentiment. what a blessing it is to be consumed with language. what a blessing it is to keep writing without looking at what is on the page.

"I am in love with poetry. Every way I turn
this, my weakness, smites me. A glass
of chocolate milk, head of lettuce, dark-
ness of clouds at one o'clock obsess me.
I weep for all of these or laugh."
Ted Berrigan, "Words for Love"

i would rather share secrets than be one

"No one worth possessing
Can quite be possessed"
-Sara Teasdale

Discord

Past false messiahs silently minded
our brief visit of finding breath, life spinning, glorified:
Calypso.
They urged us to be reticent bounded smile shining
assuming the finding-- the waiting Penelopes.

But just simply to see! Unblinded by words,
unravel confined beauty of flowers,
not just smells, hidden secrets-- the patterns.

See Calypso's gift, just your whistle changes tides,
now breasts are not for hiding.

What is more lady-like than Arachne
and her web of divinest strings,
established in her 8-eyed grin,
with just the quality of knowing all
too well of female sin.

a dog that never plays

I have committed the deadliest sin,
to look at words writ (trapped) in voids between
margins of love sick
and sad; the Page.

lay with you

lie with you

writing, writing and it didn't make sense.

I feel

that is what I feel

how beautiful that is just

to feel and not complicate

with self evoking, redundant chords

to just swing on the quiet strings of its simplicity.

plates shift now foreign

From the corner of eyes,
too poised
You look
Not even seeking, and still pressed together.
As if flowers in mother's firm books.

I fear finding one of rumor of your quiet Bloom
would make me collapse,
and anyway
where should my head fall after crafting those
digging thorn
levees on your lap?

Watch My Dawn rise carefully, upon warm hairs
of the crown's childish head,
as if knowing, then suddenly quite carelessly showing.. and showing
and showing.
and showing
How our light splendidly crept from the curtains,
quite clear off to bed,
and up to the wall.
How can it be told you did not feel it at all?

Our separate ice boxes may fit us well, for I am not afraid
to be alone, to be fed alone.
Learned to pave this path of my own silken tread.
Now you slump our shoulders
just to say it is better,
now we can make ourselves
happy (as nothing),
and you think it works.

See I thought there was no more of you that I could miss,

for now it seems all I possess remains stale memorythat aches of your caress.

Maybe now I slouch almost thankfully divided.

Should I set hearts a sail and say you're the one that has lost,

or try to piece it together to show what you forgot?

Today I will write a Poem and not an Elegy.

Love's Rumor (to Augustin)

So easy it appears to be the blind man you assume,
the hiding prophet.
(so craved does your heart appear to show)
I will try to teach you this fragrance we coin, the status we resume.
Melded, we unthread the fabric of The Way Things Were
with you and a handful of past lovers—
all of their wailing, piercing murmurs. With me and you
We
redefine past thoughts of love’s rumor:
this everchanging raw patch,

lined with melted smiles,
entwined is our skin in this silk framework-
..If only you would let yourself be enamored.

keepin' wants under your bed.

now in your absence I have grown
to feel longing, its hot swept under carpet suckling.
Nurture the adjusted emptiness
to find it is both of us that are lacking.
But what a consuming smile!
I could not put off loving you another day.

But as the tide reappears each day a bit higher or lower, and the salted sea breathes backwashed foam up to washed sandy beaches, until the curl of The Way Things Are pushes back into the sea, this accustomed pattern of attempting to create was of the same force- it mirrored the incessant breeze that always goes back into the ocean, the words reciprocate this back into the mouth, retracted from paper into this meticulous wonderment that is creative ability or lack thereof. Trying to write while catching the tide.

lu

bent goddess, howling at the moon
I wish my lungs
were inflated to greet your breath. It seems a rounder world,
a kinder womb.
Caress now scenting the world with tiny
sparks of breezy evenings glazed
from twirling afternoons.

Twisted to address my declawed character
to morph, drunk from you.
Defeated myself with emotion
(or perhaps I may just have bloomed). A muse,
inked neon sign of allure- pure
inspiration to forget the wretched latch within
these borders.
You said that beauty can be difficult to write about,
so write with its disorder.

"I don't learn from my own poems"

Learning to find quiet- beneath myself I
reach grasping to be saved
from your sense of accounting (a mere strut),
till I find goodness in some careful wine
then mistake it perhaps for the crimson of your cheek-
daylight peers with its kinding smirk.
(And to think I wanted to stay a week)

Still breathing-barely-breaking the yolk, it watches you:
review slender phrases titled with a label maker- "Emotions"--
a shield of your accustomed rationality.
I find you stuttering, sobbing, sighing
trying to keep sobering but still blatantly sheltering.
you told me a paraphrase of the memoir would do a life justice,
I watch you still squirm for some sense of attachment.

if you like my poems let them by E. E. Cummings

if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

cata

We stab our spines, daggers penetrating the bus door
and anticipate its confined close and meek opening.
Burn holes into these intricate scuffs,
painted like a prophecy on the floor.

We are publicity speaking for ourselves, alone
(while thigh deep in looks of unsuited anger)
We
would rather stand alone than sit by a stranger.

Growing out of youth,
accustomed to clap,
clap,
clapping to the left, right.
All together we learn this path paved.
Learn the crease of your step,
while racing on knees to grasp
your subtle wisdom (a melody in each breath).
The tissue full of vitamins,
our only needed supplement.

Quiet reminder to whistle while you walk,
lend an ear to the bird's call.
Memory clenched,
finding the harmony of good in the absurd.

I have found memories of Ninas
in each flower's bloom.
Grandpa, you are
my seven letter word.

a

delight in order
do you truly see beauty
because i think you just feel it

i suppose we could say we were not actually there, i could say i was not asleep on the boulder of your chest, maybe singe my eyes and pretend not to notice the hair on the back of necks tilted perpendicular to the floor.

when our tired bodies begin to regret dishonesty, they become advocates for intimacy without handcuffs.
all together alone,
the silhouette of jaws slice face like a machete.

i know i would rather sleep in bed from my chores with you than face the daylight, and though my shoulders thirst for the sun's rays i feel sanctity within your grasp lasting until sunset. your hair is a better resting place than my haunted pillow.

BATTER MY HEART

lies still
frozen draining in a cold bath
(counting the ways i have failed
you, myself,
failed warmth.)
why am i lurking in the cold bath,
while you listen to others and their decomposing,
their forced laughs?

draining, drowning was my sentiment to you,
ring out your soaked eyes.
let life filter in,
don't gasp as if you have never seen it.

it has been awhile, yes it has.
yes it has been awhile. yes, there is a fly
hovering over your ear. in your while.

william blake.

WE WILL learn to grow fond of ourselves, along with that old, stable, soaking wind beating into ears in late winter. i seem to grow overly accustomed to words reproducing from the hands-- multiplying and forcing them on paper or lines. i have become enthralled with creativity, producing anything that merges words into structures, whether they be tiny morphing dividers in place of a wall or strong concrete paving the street.
THESE DAYS it has been stream of consciousness without much of a consciousness. i believe i have drifted from attached emotion into a single drop of creativity that i squeeze out of myself. almost as if bleeding out of my toes, i
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit
bullshit

Saraosis

Your purple font leaks into eyes,
a drunkard's breath poisoning a virgin ear.

Back in the day you didn't notice the sunrise, or even try
to stay up late in order to catch a glimpse.
Back in the day our kisses tried to sprout wings,
but could not.
They simply danced upon the eyelids,
fell into slits of our dogged eyes.
Back then you would say something is beautiful,
sit anxious in a one-second glance
and look away.

Back in the day I sorted clouds and bought syntax.
I became a meticulous machine you let your lens linger upon.

Now we produce forced love
in creased half-smiles, tucked away.
Our backs hiding daylight within this clasp.
Now we make our minds think it so correct,
share thoughts of disillusion with locked thighs,
grazed backs.

Now we gain callous, harbor completeness upon stifled emotion:
the blatant lack of compassion.

Back in the day words didn't ooze out of my hands. They didn't induce tears or grab me from my neck, twisting hard. Back in the day I couldn't attach emotion, it was floating over bodies, poems, held hands. I could not pin them down, would reach for it as far as my arms could grab. Back in the day I accepted a brain of fallacies to shape reasoning for my actions--I made irrational decisions and deemed them excusable for my young age. Back in the day I didn't see laughter in the sun. I did not find peace in solitude. Back in the day I made love, produced, franchised, and sold love. Today I can't even buy it.

i wish we were always new, in bloom
our laced toes stumble upon the ripest fruit
of juice so new,
limbs fertile as the full of moon.

i want to create, i want to use my brain, i want thoughts to appear in tiny cartoons from my ears and dance across the page. i keep thinking the paper will make words appear. i am still fucking blocked. i will write about not being able to create. i will write about not writing. i will start every sentence with "i". i was always my favorite, anyway. i want fruit on the bottom yogurt. i don't care if there's liquid on the top. i think that's what makes it good. i think you just have to mix it. i am reading some sad poetry and maybe that is what has been stifling my creativity or rather my ability to find these fucking words. i think the trouble is not only literary. i used to be able to write for hours, complete bullshit. i thought at least it was making my mind work. i don't really know if i have any bullshit, either. i should probably buy some new anti-virus software just to get this reminder from popping up all the time. i think that's it.

we were never 'just friends'

slept on your back

hiding daylight from our clasp
the mind thinks it's so correct. Shed shared disillusion with locked thighs,

grazed backs.

(...to be continued)

so long since i have created something to be proud of. what has possessed me

i want to continue posting chosen magnetic slews of words at least it has some substance

i am terribly uncommitted i want to release something i need more than what i have i see fingers grazing my skin but only their shadow

but the way you are structured
it is quite obvious,
no type of film can capture your smile
(or the way you saw me out of your eyes)

cage to cave, "now this is my skin i feel"

Know the words are inside this cage.
I lost the sense to see them,
the way they curve and capture letters in one body,
onto the page
explode out of the prison,
into complete openness. It's gone.

The poetic game of hide-and-seek,
reach down throats and force them.

Words have just turned into snores,
snores, words, snores,
words are snores voices are snores
they drone,
gazing in quotation boxes over my barely living heads.

I envelope the dusk and sit still, longing for Better Days,
writing all over the page
when your hair didn't curl that way.
When poems were said with warmth,
not caged displays of tolerance.

you have thoughts about your veins twining in thick energy, glazed by haunted skin and marbled past. have you become the trunk in which is held between my shoulder blades keeping me in place? no, i don't think you have.

it is now the "new year" let it be happy! everyone will be talking about BEGINNINGS time warps and change until this year is over so we can reminisce about how terrible it was (again, haven't you said that every passing?) really it is just 365 days perhaps that is seen as a substantial amount of time but to me it is all just the same.

today i learned that it is just an arms length away.