empty

eyes, hollow heart. lonely limbs, swallowed start.

sleeveless,

disheveled.

donning crusty trousers, oily cap.
cracked hands, and water in the morning.
you wish it were juice, but you never drink juice.

because every time you reach to buy it,
you hear her sounds.
her giggle, her jab.
her tease, her demand.

and for split seconds---fleeting tiny meaningless moments---all the wind of the world is rushing from ear to ear. flooding your brain, clogging your throat, bloating your chest, until you run empty-handed from the market. a cart-full left on aisle nine. for the stock-girl to put back.


she does so. swift and precisely. but not without wondering. not without inquisitive fingers. not without a long look at the automatic door closing on a sleeveless shadow.

everyone he knows, knows

he's good at gathering, collecting. he's a scavenging king. need a scrap of fabric? a spare pie tin? looking for a long lost screw? he's got bundles of discarded cardboard, stacks of assorted paper, racks of empty jars. boxes brimming with hooks, and tacks, and feathers, and twine. everywhere he looks, he sees potential. left-over bottle caps, extra napkins, old canisters. that coil of wire, this strip of leather, even those old pine cones and dried twigs. every object in sight claims a space in his imaginary garden of possibility. yet, silent they sit. organized into quiet compartments. tucked away in safe cupboards and dressers, in wardrobes, on shelves. they sit in segregated silence. they are only lonely seeds. and nothing will come of them.

everyone knows.

oh go

fuck yourselves.



when i wake to the grey and it's slow and gentle and calling me out. i hate how my mind works. in memory so vibrant, loud. selective. that night we danced till i thought i'd die laughing. that afternoon that split me open and made me sure heaven is not here at all. i know the feeling now. the truth. like all those little boys long since grown and given up. who've left superheroes behind. we were meant for flight. i look to the grey sky. it cannot be denied. i know i should be able to go up up up, swoop low, glide in grace for fun for joy for love for celebration.

to think you know something, and then become absolutely unsure.
it's so stupid.
it's so typical.
no grass is green at all.

even at this

hour, a dull orange glows up from the city's distance. fills the canyon, blackens trees, blots out buildings. we're reduced to cut-outs of ourselves.

this is the tale

tall and crisp and crumbling at the edges. worn and burnt, it's stood the test of time and fire. it whispers the ambiguous, coexisting truths. it wails in the desert confounded ultimates. it sings and swirls, it never spins. it gathers up, it cuts and widens, it divides. when you are calling out, it comforts. when you are fat and bored, it tugs. no one will ever understand its fullness. no one could ever look into the light, except through blood-stained glasses, red-streaked robes. what is asphalt and sidewalk? what is concrete? what is brick? what is plaster and plywood? there is nothing but children of all ages, grown or gone, or crying out to emptied parents, "look at me! look at me! watch me, Mommy! watch me Dad." love me, listen to me. like me, talk to me. take me places, teach me things. ask me questions. sing me. sing me to sleep.

what the

sunset boasted
and the young boy
long toward
glory
forgive us
forget us
release us
let us
be

closed

minded and huddled in corners of corners, in pockets of pockets, in basements of cellars of backrooms of wardrobes, so shoot me now, before you die. shoot me before the whole world rains down. some are strong enough. or maybe that simple. that naive, and unassuming. maybe that careless. but not me. not for me. this end this sight this life this life. it's not for me. it is not for me.


shoot me now.

yes,

you were right.

but you were wrong, but you were right. and i was wrong. i am forever and ever indefinitely, repeatedly, decidedly wrong. wrong, wrong wrong.


do not sit timid and tame in the corner. do not shoot darts with your eyes, and pass blades in silence. i hate the quick cut. i hate the absolute island. i hate the fact that there is no human being on earth that i can open my chest to and say here, feel, touch, see, are we the same? are we not the same!

the crust

is cracked and craving agua.

his face is parched awaiting somewhere.

don't come home tonight.

my love.

don't go home tonight.






[gaggaggag]

mist

of drizzle
constant cloud of
sprinkling dew
dropping in
surrounding you
until a blanket of wet
you're soggy sodden damp unkempt


atop
dark chunks of grainy soil
soppy but wriggling with life
like if you ate it,
your stomach would be full
of buds and grubs and pollen
insect egg sacs
future

hope



**unfinished from the window seat/sill perch

here we go.

blast off. roarandrattle. jostled nonchalance. as everyone pretends not to feel. keep reading. keep being.

[ gathering remnants ]

grains of sand to be turned over and smoothed until they're something precious, appreciated, understood.

"And thou

shalt love the Lord they God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment.

And the second is like, namely this, thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.

There is none other commandment greater than these."

"Lay not up

for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal;

But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal;

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."

caught.

to avoid being/feeling frustrated/flustered, clarence willed himself into apathy. "just don't care. you. don't. care. it doesn't matter. nothing does," and he felt more free.

nirvana is not nothingness. it is the absence of somethingness. the lack of desire. without desire, there can be no disappointment. without disappointment, life at last is bliss. things cannot go wrong, if right does not exist.

my world

is one of soggy shades, blurred and bleeding round the edges.
soft tones and faded colors,
nothing too sharp
or even

distinct .

then pennies

flooded from above and we were trilled into tiny shivering slivers. "come closer!" she crushed me and laughed, "we're turning to gold!"





i haven't heard a thing since.

"i am

a flower," she said.
"and my face stretches straight for the Sun by instinct, or reflex, or ancient secret love. as involuntary as breathing, as natural as death."

come out

to the harbor at the dusk of day. pink whisps of leftover cloud will blow your heartache away. and if you are careful, if you watch closely, you can suck the last bit of sunkiss up with your eyes. and hold it inside. if you watch closely, if you stay careful, you can keep the last sunkiss, sip its warmth in the night.