nice things I write

Through my dirty window, 

light begins to peak in, 

pink grease smeared across 

gray clouds, that have been 

pulled and stretched long.

A tinted glimpse 

of long legs laid out, 

dewy green grass scattered 

on skinned, scabbed knees

 down bruised shins to bare ankles.

A glint under the water, 

where a bike rests and rusts 

while we watch lady bugs 

until we have to stand up 

and pick ticks off our bodies.

The moon echos 

off the crashing waves, 

as we tear at our skin 

and run, until the sand sinks, 

wet under our feet.

In between the oscillation, 

the dark begins to swallow 

everything that isn’t on fire.

He saved me, saved me hundred times, saved me.

It’s all happening, now all up, now all I am.

He stood there in a dark blue jacket and even darker eyes,

walked out off and away in December.

He climbed into my bed, a Wednesday night,

put his index finger to his mouth and lay beside me.

We went far out, at the salt lake, he eased his heart,

spoke about the girl he was in love with,

the boys who kissed her neck.

He brought cinnamon rolls and we stayed out at sea.

The damned early life, that life must begin soon,

so he could kiss the pretty girls and dance soon soon soon.

I nodded but felt secretly that life existed

as we sat there on the curb on High Street.

We fought often, beat in doors, froze the eye

but longed for each other so much

the heart almost burned down.

It was just, we wanted too much, and did too much.

He was in love, called me thousands of night and cried out,

everything happens so fast,

we were fifteen four seventeen p.m. six nineteen p.m. twenty.

I listened drank tea drinking beer dancing teasing missing loved him.

You live here as much as I am now.

You should never go to sleep sad and I never felt alone.

I’m glad you called.

Happy belated birthday.

Nice to hear you’re doing so well. 

Your sister said you’re going to France.

That’s exciting.

Your dad isn’t doing that good.

Have you looked up Alzheimer’s?

It’s stage six.

I’d like if you come down to see 

the new house

maybe you can stay the night

or we can just get lunch.

I want you to come,

see dad.

You can take the train?

I’ll come pick you up.

What is your new address?

I’ll send you something for your birthday.

You have to eat in Paris.

What is time, dear? 

If I still love you 

as I did before, 

in a year. 

Time is a testament 

to a tree, 

but if I commit years 

by your side, 

am I still free? 

I am not oak, 

nor you pine. 

I’d like to say 

I’d be your’s 

and you mine, 

but, we, 

fundamentally 

disagree, 

conventions, 

with charges 

such as these. 

And in a decade, 

if I still want to 

kiss your face,

will all other lips 

be erased? 

What can I say 

if that is the case, 

I would choose to forget

all other’s taste.

dear,

darling, 

darling, 

loveless hydrogen,

wrap around white wounds,

migrate each fold,

hard bone, soft scratch,

atom smash,

————— crack,

a joyless collision.

desert birds root,

flesh and flush,

empty circuit center,

pink cheeked invalid,

picked apart,

laid out,

a sacrifice,

to an angry burn,

that circles,

lonely electrons.

There is no mother tongue tucked between teeth,

silencing the language of multiplicity. 

Dominant reality roots through the internal

nerve fiber like puppet strings, 

weaving a universal myth.

There is no law of nature’s reflection

in that raised cry.

Molecular communication has evolved and died. 

The same applies and the same applies.  

the character,

an american expression.

chanted psalm 

of the republic,

solid and beautiful form.

they are now no,

veins of a nation,

arbiter of key and land,

soul and sea.

stars speak,

blood stagnates on flat faith,

judges, judges,

judges, judges.

dream of the antiseptic soul,

unconscious and illiterate,

individual identity.

wandered the woods 

through a curtain 

of fog. 

Red and yellow 

blanket the ground, 

sporadic 

white 

patches 

of early snow.

With a delicate step, 

quiet breath,

he crept, 

through enemy land.

A spark, 

in the corner of his eye,

and the shot.

She danced,

a desperate stretch 

and sway.

Each crunch 

betrayed the steps

as he moved in.

Collapsed,

a gasp,

her head rests

still.

The last shudder

of a noble wing.

Head hung,

the boy with

burning eyes

staring 

at a silhouette.

Based on Cyfford Still’s Untitled 1977

A pistil tongue consumes 

the acidic, deep purple 

wilting welts that stain 

an angel’s trumpet

bathed in thyme.

A rotting moon rhythm

keeps the metronome

of a marigold mouth

filled with milkweed.