For Editing

I am so enveloped in pure existence

When I have overcome the mountain

And its’ trepid rocks and steep inclines

When I walk by the side of no one

And no one being knows my thoughts.

You can lie on your bed and recall my thigh

Against yours, and staring long at my eyes

Mine were on the screen

Long you shall fantasize

And for many a year I will predict and build

(Out of red lego) my own demise.

No one knows me, nor my place, where

I traipse alone and feel one and whole and unsliced and clean

When I return to the place with steel poles and bad perfumes

That’s where I say to come from, but never belong.

You will know me, say your eyes, and you run your knuckles

Gentle along my arm and blink slowly. Slowly and the buckles

Of the deeper knowing come unstuck

And together we crawl towards an isle of reprieve from all the toxic muck

The pain carefully held within origami folds, a blown up box

Triangle, diamond, triangle, every fold

Untucked. 

Lustlike Metaphors

Your cheeks are smooth, like marble, but soft and frostily white
They freckle, scarred by unbarred sunlight
And in spite of a younger love
There is no more delightful sight
Than the creases, like lived-in bedsheets
Around the smooth, transparent blues
That glint, hintingly
Under the hoarder of secrets
The lunar light. 

Lick

Artist: James Jean

My face is peeling-
Can't you see it?- In an act
of discordance,
formerly known as 'despair'.

I tug at the edge and pull down
slowly
as it passes the glasses
with which I hide, and stare.

And over my lips comes a sharp, liquidy
sting
Porous, weak are those things we suck

And licking, slip-- slide-- slip
where within our tongues may dip;
I tenderly touch them once more

as, blindly, I board the breathless ship. 

Illumination, or, a Fumigation.

I promised myself I would not let them in

Follow the light, you say; well it was dark there.

You put the lamp over the words

Now all I am is bare bones.

16 September: I Haven't Written Proper Poems in Almost A Year

You might crave your nicotine
hit; provides comforting
But I am dancing solitarily through
a dust cloud,
Reaching for that impostor horizon.

A kiss on this kisser
Would band-aid the misser.

A blue streak appears, cutting and
Slicing like a serrated blade through baguette
Dissapating the dust's transient cover. 

Now I Really Am a Branch

There’s a place inside me that’s curling up

A little piece from a willow tree

The leaves are strewn among the grass blades, decaying

And the wick is drying up and shrunk.

There are pieces like it but they’re still on the tree

My piece looks up only for it to see

The others are alive but they can only see the ground

Is it better in my place or theirs? I want to be found,

  Taken away and woven ever beautiful

 Into a wedding crown, and always regarded with a honey-warm eye

I can’t believe their compliments and kind words

Because I’m promised, instead, happiness from the biggest big guy.

Homework Not Unpleasant

There is little more so ordinarily

Satisfying 

Than typing one’s notes for a talk about that 

sensual figure of men’s dreamings

as an autumnal breeze rustles the curtain 

and light; 

with tea at hand to slowly sip.