sample. repeat. it's inauthentic. it's stale. it's
wrong.
it's warm and satiable. it's wire and brindle
a bridle of twine.
twisted around this time of mine.
it's a mediocre contrast of inconsistencies.
medieval (which i still cannot spell) and grotesque
baroque, at best.
gold and filigree and blatant promotion.
embedded in stone and gold.
so, please.
someone take note:
embed me within a eulogy of memories you remembered.

how much life can one spine take
how much weight until a back breaks

the moment quicker than a poet's tongue
flightier than the damsel flies mating above our heads
in swarms
in fact.

we fall down stairs like barrels on hills
speed and sound the musical notes of days so fast
can't stop
can't.

mnemonic

breathing patterns
cut from dotted lines
outlining your lungs
muslin masking mine

i'm in lust all over your summer skin
shed around me like a snake shake your face that sin inspired grin
wince at the light that wakes us from behind the blinds
the piece of glass pivots, catches us off guard as it hits our eyes

bodies and brine, a modern day mummification
wrap ourselves in each others shedded skins
purification from the depths
steal the rubies and emeralds to fashion our beating hearts, gleaming eyes
gold and rust, the markings of elegance and age

i hope we grow old under a grove
because we both know.

He sat next to me.

He lived next door from me. Across the street, in fact. He live 5 states away. It could have been closer. The timing was all wrong.

When isn't it?

He lived in my head.

Fingers, slender instruments humming the tune only out of pitch.

But that's between you and me.

I sing the melody in my quiet moments, to keep me company. To keep my thighs light. And keep my shoulders upright.

Annie said it would be forever. It would a be life of fighting recollections. Not sure which one to bet on quite yet. And quite frankly, it's not a fight I want to watch. Let me live in my head. Problem with that is that your head lives alone in a quiet house. He lives with me in loud moments of passion filled precision.

It's not like suicide was an option, ever. But it never wasn't, either. I'm a happy person. I'm content in the day, in the night. I'm satisfied, I feel validated. Either way, something isn't right. It's the ultimate unwanting: it's the essence of living in the moment. It's like this:

You have the sensation to want to sneeze. The tickle, first comes from somewhere in the chest that you've never quite traveled to. It moves upward into your face. You know it, then, as a need to sneeze. Something happens. The hair on your arms stand up and it's like the sneeze is a word resting on the tip of your tongue; it's a dream you can't quite translate into words; it's a sensation like no other. It moves. It's fleeting. They say look into the light. Bad advice, if you're dying. Ring around the rosey. It all makes sense - it's death in small doses. Incremental. It subsides. You're left, upset. Life, as you know it, resumes. Then, it comes as a wave. As a colosal tidal dream of the ocean you can recount each and every step of. The smells, the voices, who was there, and, most importantly, why you are there. You sneeze. The hair on your arms raises again, differently. Suddenly. Some say orgasmic. I say it's the sin of the century. It's hedonistic. It's natural. It's you in the moment. It disappears.

So, why is that no one ever dreams of sneezing?

Anxiety Translated

And it happened
and, well, I followed too, of course.
And you said it
and, well, naturally, I said it too.

That leaves us here
marked by the damned desire.
A frivolous tumultuous concoction like you'd make with your friends and dare them to drink. A tincture so toxic it would kill you in large doses. It is so strange how the most interesting of ingredients can become insipid suicide in an instant. We must manifest belly aches in order to maintain our own neurosis.

The Secret Lives of Love

It started by an accident. Compounded with a lifetime to follow suit.

inner monologues the new forgottens
fantastical timing and a world is new again.

tumbleweeds, the tangled mess of strangers rolling through the night.
I'll remember this place by the shadows cast.
and you're alright because we're here tonight
and nothing is going to stop this rain.

we sit and smile at the fire for hours. no moonlight, but that's alright
I't s a one way street with a dead end here
and I'll remember where we came from
because it's easy to follow the sun.

drain the bottles dry in the starless skies of winter nights
hope for the spring and fear for the summer
everything ends and you'll be with me there too
because when the birds sing
the bees sting.

Like Spitting in the Wind or Splitting Hairs for that Matter

This silence moves (kills) me.
Words are forgettable.
However there are two
that I can't seem to shake.

I asked someone for a partial
lobotomy of just those
two words.
I was about to compromise
with offering to sacrifice
an entire sentence.
I couldn't find the strength.

I couldn't find the strength
in me to lose more than
what's been taken.
Given.
I can't tell the difference any more.

This indifference
overwhelms me.
Your moves seduce (kill) me.

I reached my hand out
of my bedroom window
to grasp a handful of wind;
have you ever tried grabbing
at air?

Just in Case I Forget to Confuse Myself More

Split the knife
split lip,
I am a lover in my sleep.

I trip over you
you are 5 states away,
I falter around local corners.

You probably stumble
around streets too,
but it's not because of me.

The wounded heart. Such an easy pet to keep. It seems to find the most inventive of ways to feed itself,
water itself,
pet itself.

I've tried to leave it on the porch of a neighbor. It has an uncanny sense of direction, always finding its way home.

I kicked it, once. It wimpered a little, but like any slightly broken beast, it came scampering back and coiled its tail beneath its legs and lay at my feet in repose,
in a pile,
in submission.

I called the number on the box, hoping it to still be under warranty. I was left disappointed, for the company only doles out refurbished replacements. And, the replacements, they say, come with no warranty at all.

I keep my days short, in hopes the nights grow long. I heard from a consumer report discussion thread that the wounded heart likes to heal itself, in the dark.

It's a great thing being an artist
filled with imagination and despair
The world can crash around you and
then you paint it like it never happened
like it was all a dream, to begin with.