Torment

She sat opposite me
in an eight foot kayak
in the center of our dis-course.
Her lips trembled as her fingers
gently tamed the waters.
We remained at our corners,
Inflamed with desires, swollen with pride.
But we never stopped our staring contest,
for I could never escape the grasp of their intent,
not until the promise of landjourneys and lovesakes
was engulfed by the nimbus.

My senses dismantled by the torment
All that remains
are those blue-silver gazes.
As the carriage snaps,
we lunge for the exchange,
restrained no longer,
wrought with terror,
reaching for one another,
but to no avail.

We graze fingertips
as I let her slip away.

I struggle with my 3-foot share
of this contorted paddle boat.
These iron strings tear at the ventricles.
But I will fight this torment
to the ends of my extension,
so long as I am once again inebriated by
the feel of her warmfeather fingertips.

While distance grows,
there is no adhesive,
no regeneration.
My chest is ridden with your remains,
and I am not comforted.


Find me in these waters,
Where I shall forever remain,
collecting fragments of heart strings.

[Untitled] (Names are welcomed.)

Place the dotted X's on my eyelids
in the form of candle wax.
Make it lavender.
Coat my fingertips with Morphine
and I will paint your name
in the lining of my cheeks.

An enormous Aurora Borealis
lies in the fibers
of these follicles of straw.
They rise erect,
delegating the shimmering dust
of imperial gardens and remembered kings
along the shoulders of this flannel.
Wise men gather on the crown of this cranium,
joined by only the worthy of countrymen,
and witness the courtship of galaxies,
a symphony of starshine.

Ironically I can no longer smell the cinnamon.
This armoire holds my seams in place.
I am pressed for time in this burlap.
I stitched on a smirk for this day,
when you would find the attic,
far too late for latency and lackings
but in perfect punctuality
for my second venture.

Would you sit opposite me on the drywood
and roll back and forth the resonance
of our former vibrancy?
Toss me ladders and waterfalls,
bowling pins and hoops of magma,
Lob the tragedies over your shoulder.
Finally, slide me your dagger.
I will swallow the denunciations of the pasture,
and make an incision from collar bone
to belt buckle,
and plunge wrist-deep into a carcass of cotton.
Such black and deceitful irony.

Well up, dear firefly.
Yes, let the throat coarse with warmth,
for there is that in your despair.
Divulge a raindrop or two,
but I beg of you,
Capture the majestic deliverance above my forehead
and release me,
so that I may consume the supernovas
or evaporate into the ethos of Rhetoric.
The lights and colors
that waltz in my hair
will never leave your subconscious.
You have my word

Eruption

Charcoaled coral encrusts the walls
Of a cavern long forgotten.
Slick surfaces, Tarnished cores,
Spouting purple jaded sunbeams
Across the canvass,
A shade of tangerine.

The levels are rising.
As she climbs with haste
With the roaring commotion
Beneath her ankles,
She imagines the release of
Succumbing to the ascension,
Relinquishing her fate to the current,
Carried by the tides to cast her droplets
Along the lining of the easel,
Lulled by the low roar of the eruption.

White Noise, Cluster Cycles

Deafened Ears settle on empty cries.
There is a chunk of serene
on the other side of this rope bridge.
Sarah's clawing up the sea rocks
fighting for her love songs.

The yellow-faced smiley pins
on Jacob's side-bag bleed bruise blue
out of their dotted eyes.
The lashes on his conscience
would put 1860 through a lot of embarrassment.
His head is a broken trash compactor.

There isn't enough blood in their veins,
not enough fire in their forest,
not enough art in their design.
It's like that feeling when you punch the ocean
with all the fibers of your being
and realize for the first time
that there are no tidal waves.

They just want to jump

Nothing Notes

Come, Sister,
Fill my head with nothing notes.
Plant your static in the orchard
And douse the crop with cellophane.
Give Saturn something to weep for,
Charging the Nymphs and Lepers of His command
With the task of your destruction.
Let the Galleons synchronize their motion
To the buoyancy of this therapy.
Transcend Dimension.

In every 15 millimoments
lies a moment:
an instance with an assigned message
interweaving synapses
forming.
Megamoments.
Yes, that's right, Megamoments.
We've got some fucking monsters out there.
Anywhere from 15 seconds to 120 years,
They are ever expanding birthday party balloons
Or perfectly constructed bubbles.
They clear volcanoes and drown belugas,
Shatter atoms and split crystal.

You're spending far too much time painting portraits.
You've missed the skeleton entirely.
Take a canoe to the mouth
And drink from it's nectar.
Swing from the firesets and
Sing with the nightflies.
Your garden leaves me weary,
and I fear your nothing notes
and millimoments
may suffocate with me
in the cellophane.

Achilles

It seems that the reinforcements
Have arrived...
For I have taken a bat to the picket fences
And I've planted my seed all over YOUR front lawn....
I'm that kind of clown
That'll frown the fuck out of your security.
You can cake those eyelids sweetheart
But we're still not impressed.

As much as I profess the lions,
I dance with Achilles
In wake of my terrors
Lost to the presence of a heel.
I've got concrete dust rocks
Gathered on the floor of my pericardium.
Mind you, I may stab at your underbelly
Claw at your soft spots,
Lap up the spoils of your surrender,
But I rattle the gravel,
Wheezing heavy as my chest aches.
So very heavy.