coming of age

there she was,
just echoing in the doorway.
the moon had given way to rain,
like an army of sunflowers,
but the glow from the window stayed.
foghorn in my chest.

a slow waltz on the record player.
quiet tears down her face.
the blood pooling bright red on the black and white kitchen tiles.
slow blooming velvet rose.
feathers falling heavy through the room.
knife clattering on the floor.
i moved like sleep,
touched the stumps on her shoulder blades.
she cringed.

this was never what i wanted.
not like this.

the back of her hand gentle on my cheek.
electrocution.
never such eyes.
death a trifle.
forever become meaningless.

moss-lined and crowded with grief,
my heart continued pounding.
she kissed me,
and i flooded with light.

the magic words have stopped working

Where the city shaves slivers of itself in its own eclipsing rotation, burning at its core the molten liquid of the forgotten dreams of dreamers--spinning the unmoving spin of the center of things, the kiss of a cherry blossom frozen in midair before our shipwrecked eyes-where it conjures electricity in the snap of metal fingers - tempts wire walkers with its unabashed opulence and mesmerizes even the sky in its catatonic embrace. I will see you again. Even if only a single old man survives the glaring beauty of your disremembered eyes, I will see you again.

the truest blue of water's real name

when i am a ship, big and hulking with time's weather, having known the timber of many a land inside the splinters of my bones, i will still think of your harbor and cry. and still, sticky with salt, i will burst through the seconds of the rendered days, as a dreadnought through the armor of night's thousand shrouds of shadow. i will not call out your name. i will bury you inside the love i held for you. my wooden heart will become a graveyard, and over my stitched up chest they will put earth. and through an ocean in which each drop of water reminds me of you, i will sail. i will sail. i will sail. i will sail and i will not stop, with time's murderous hammering bearing me always back to that bed where we slept, a night when i was awoken by the moon, and you, still sleeping, raised your head and kissed my bare shoulder blade and then set it back to your pillow. when i asked you later, you remembered nothing.

put away your sleep fists when i'm dreaming

those blue clad body bruisers have stomped in to spoil lives again. and me all fog-headed, trying to breathe like a cloud and have one serious conversation with the whispering stars. tragedy it is then, for i put it to you to give me the mind of a violent man. my chest is an echo chamber that always screams the same words and they do not mix well with the rules that have been written for us. so i will go all cryptic, and i will still love people, and we all will continue to be fear blossoms growing inside the curdled heart of a thing that may never have been beautiful, but that we will continue to pay quivering homage to nonetheless, and for all the lies we are told, all the purposeless destruction, and the ruins of our own imaginations huddled in the decayed cathedrals of unchased dreams, we will be sick many a day, but we will go on living, hand in hand, heart in heart, we will go on living.

blue jean sky, i love you, you mother fucker

pour it down. soak me silly. sea swallow these streets with your sweet nothings. the calm, quiet, clam that is my heart is sitting still, knowing you are there and loving you for it. what a miracle of moments it has all turned out to be. you play your harp and i'll sit in this aching body, pulse with life, stare out from these bones, think a flock of thoughts. i'll signal you when it's time. i'll line up my feet with walking. i'll plant some seeds for you to remember me by.

make your tools forget their work in the homecoming of your hands

because the moon drips light across the invisible boundaries through, inside of, and between the lips and tongue of language. because your spine binds you like the most beautiful book. because families of thoughts brush up against the sighs of telephone wires. because seasons ramble through our years and graze upon us like the idle dreams of sleeping bullets. because the city is the constant erased etch-a-sketch of the ceaseless tides of people. because turtles dream of music we can't begin to imagine. because flowers are just the earth reaching. because mason jars like to be full of tea. because boots enjoy stomping. because books relish the concentration of our eyes. because dancing is the soul of restless winds. because the hunger is too great and too vast to ever be permanently fed. because the point of socks is to keep your feet warm. duh. because the smell of shaving cream, the smell of fresh cut grass, the smell of basil, is the knockout punch of instant nostalgia. because your eyes are the polaroid camera of your heart. because you get swallowed by grief's thorns, but get blossomed by love's water. because the strange ocean of your mind resembles the blur of hummingbird wings. because wine makes love to your blood and laughter massages loss. because you're good at breathing.

this is why.

the sky opens its mouth like bursting hearted halo holder

these two hands, they shake because they are not big enough to unbreak all the brokenness, all the car accidents, scraped knees, and dead parents. dawn's temper tantrum finds me bleary eyed and seam shattered in the wake of all the unholy visions sleep gave birth to. these cities, they churn us through them and spit us out, leave us vibrating, humming, collapsing on curbsides, grasping for other hearts, tears tormenting the pavement. i will not let your light be eclipsed. i will not let your heart be swallowed. these hands, they are small, but strong. they can't do everything, but they can do much.