"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.