boîte brioche chapeau cloche

We've learned to put dreams into boxes
"I love you"'s into less than three words
Our ambitions--half-read and half-imagined
Responding like time-warps
Taking nouns with meaning and "verbing" them
Exactly
Outdated synonym books sit four feet from our fingertips
Calling out to bud-deafened ears
We can't talk
Can't remember
Can't single-handedly discover
Mundane letters, shocking our lost poets
Slipping feelings in between casual vibrations
We are the essential bifurcated man
Focus-shot, with a curtain call at every drama
Originality is wasted like half hour personal rains
The squares in our hands have stolen who we are
Our identities; littered with pseudonyms and
Sky-reaching wide eyes outlined in demise
Shall we not scream in fear at the trample of inspiration
Shout in the painful recognition of depleting beauty
Cry in the streets of tossed out creativity
Curse into the very face of the one who captured our minds
And never gave them back
These fleeting awakenings are contagious

belonging is less of solid and more of a plasma

It's lonely to think of a star burning - so far away and un-consoled, breaking silently because sound only exists when it touches our ears. But our souls are older than that when we stare at the canvas of sky. Moist and ebony. The most aged souls, our kindred spirits, they know the skies have ears - deep ones that already know what love sounds like. Controlled and desolate, we can learn, irrationally, dancing against a landscape. Maybe the stars contain our souls, aging them atmospherically, feeding out inspirations. Maybe our souls are made of stars - some humble and melodic, others too close; too bright, or falling fast and hard for a universal benefit. I'll send my soul to this earth, just for you, praying that I'm your wish. 

hopes above water

I want a man whose words are scrambled newsprint, whose strands of hair release my fingertips into tingling bliss from which recognition spouts. I want a free-roaming wild lover, deep as cathedral liturgy--as dark only as the ring that creeps at the halo of my moon. Swaying when he feels distant as a reminder of those smokey roots he leads me through. I want him to need me. I want to be his muse, his dreamer, his crystallized frenzy, his love's legacy. His laughter will be on parchment that he sends to me across ship-deserted seas in a stained-glass corked bottle. His soul and his skin will be one harmony--rich and real and designed and soothing and whispering. He will be the type of adventure found in library corners after hours, and resting on renegade rooftops. Speech like a mystery swan of ancient inscriptions, searching me out like sun strips in a graveyard. His heart would move as purposed and memorizing as a pen against a static screen--a hidden, secret story behind each, like sundials. Nothing in him will be subdued; his passions will be original and ringing and smashing into the unbending pallor of all that normality seeks to possess. He will awaken inside of me a symphony of soil and stars and seas and sky. We will be creativity, a thirst like one foot in the sand and one in the tide, a poignancy of lotus at the lips of a gypsy. 

5:00

It's that feather on a rooftop
Trickling across
Smashing into a train
And neither lost,
Added eloquence for one
A spirited remedy.
For the other, a safety
Strength,
Arms of steel emeralds.
Travelling onward
Purposeful clatter, alive
Smitten with the decoration
The caress of
Fragmented beauty,
Every flutter--defining.
Inside, soft jazz,
As intrinsic as our first words.

un-composed static

don't let him love her, you say

if he loves her

he will love you

but what if he

is two people, too?

broken, beautifully

one soul split in half

become two, again,

of their own.

i do not love him

only the split diversity

relishing in irrational reaction.

his hands are the moon

strumming and staying 

his eyes are the rain

emotions are swaying

gently, he is saying

"poetic, a fairy-tale"

words of a nightingale.

let me fall. 

i thought you were my acronym

moon, you are shorter lived
repeating
it were pretense, love
a manageable mystery
scathing into something ethereal
rather
ironies fleeting
as foolish feet once dreamed
is nothing green in you?
leave me
white and haunted
moon-burnt and blinded
at prevailing
vertices separated by his eyes
moon, must you set?
your lady is too radiant
too arrogant
citrus as rings glow.
a mournful wine
passed and forgotten
found and reveled
moon.
grace us dancing. 

a ghost of liberation

If you're inspired to write, you have to. You have to drop everything else and just write. Those words have always been in your mind, and it's going to get very crowded in there if you don't let them flow from your mind into your heart, through the passageway that is your soul, down your arm and into your little messenger fingertips. Give that pencil everything you've got. Don't hold back. If it doesn't sound eloquent or poetic, good. But if it does, that's good too. The moment you start writing for someone other than you, is the moment that the words skip one crucial step in the writing process... the soul purification. Words aren't pure unless they are filtered through the soul, and the soul only engages under circumstances of true inspiration, of genuine feeling. Your words are like little fetuses, and it's not easy to ignore those literary labor pains. Just so, if you try to engage those words before they're ready... they won't have near the beauty and severity as if you had waited for that light bulb moment. And you can tell. If you're reading something that someone else wrote, no matter how long ago or how far away... you can identify if the words have been soul-filtered from the first letter. People think of words, sometimes, like rain droplets. Like little harmless sprinkles that mistily fall from the slightly darkened clouds. But I can't say that's the metaphor I associate with words. The soul knows no sprinkling rain. The soul is more accustomed to torrential downpours, to tornado-like whirlwinds, to crashes of thunder and streaks of magnificent lightning. If words are trickling out, it means they're edited or forced. But when you feel that storm welling up inside of you, at the base of your sternum, and then spreading all the way to you fingers... you know you're onto something. And whether you have to sit on the curb in the middle of walking your dalmatian, or scribble something down on the skin of a mango you're peeling... you've got to write. Think of what would happen if the sky decided to hold in it's rage. I'm pretty sure the world would implode. You've got to love the feeling of powerful words emptying from you, because it's the closest to yourself you will ever be. And I'm emphasizing on words, here, but it goes for any form of expression--painting, drawing, dancing, running, horseback riding, photographing, playing music, singing--whatever it is that is inside of you: *let it out*. Free yourself. The liberation of releasing a storm is nearly like nothing else. It's like a mix between everything beautiful in your own mind. For me, it's a mix between a tree on a brown shirt and late-night hair washing; torn up green sofas and opaque windows and deserted formal classrooms and moonlit woods; racing horses and circular walks and illegal statues and midnight music and fluffy stairs and minivans; eating worms and living room back flips and lime green wall paint and 2:00 a.m. brokenness; running from fears that exist inside and train tracks running through a cave; the moon at its fullest and leather bracelets and unspoken love; antiques and extensive autumn trees and the moon changing colors and childhood books; abandon parking lots and pseudo-intoxicated confessions; disregarded windows and feline exceptions and sleepy theatrics; soul-deep music and cursive letters and warm organic tea and aging books under lock and key; creeks and rusty white trucks and people with real love and strips of dusty sunshine in the mornings. And really.. so much more. I can't express, singly everything inside of me. Which is why I write. Which is why, when the reckless storm is pleading.... let. it. free.

more than seeing

This is realization that love exists. I've felt this several times, although I can't remember the first... It was the feeling of waking up and seeing the sun and being conscious of my heartbeat and not accustomed to my own reflection. It was feeling that insane ecstasy of doing something old in a new way, and loving each liquid second of life. It was imagining myself in a hot air balloon... above the world, transcendent. It was that sensation right as I woke up or fell asleep... knowing there's something deep and ravine-like out there for me to feel and explore. It's... love. Like milky citrus. 

The Garden

something is like a table of offset cards, swooshing all in the crevices of each heavy movement.

Like decorated necks in a jungle of green flurries.

Like... I"m being swept by something.

It's like the tomato soup of cornflake champions.

Dude... I have. You don't have to exist as a bomb of time for me anymore. No no. just like a fifties rifle, fifties rifle. All the days, okay?

lets. be. free.

It was the difference between a worm that had been dead and was on a hook, and a worm that wriggled a bit.
Bro... you are freeing to me. Like. You just are like a fighter pelican.
Free from the sound effects, well will be so blue in the knees, the opposite really.
Like... separating the dry gross gritty stuff from the rich, sweet juice. Do you want that plural? Because I can accommodate those kinds of exits.
Can you feel it spreading, man? You see.. I don't remember.

The secrets of you are in every bottle, man. Because it's where I write your existence. 
Drink until I find you.
That you'd better not die. Better not let go. And that I'd better keep in mind every stipulation. Gosh I need some baked macaroni.
I'll bet that my legs taste like fuchsia.
Like how do you realize all ALL of the little mixtures whizzing.
No one can talk about the origins of immortality. Wooooooooah. I'll steal all of your vowels, man.
Three little birds... over and over and over.
una. dea. trio. quattor. quinque. sex. septem. octem. novem. decem.
Your mind is as much male as togeher we will have.
No disclaimers.
IT MEANS WASH THE BOARDS OF MOUNTAIN leaves. Gathered.
Even in your wrists do you feel it?
Thanks for the waffle of lets go stop yellow.
Kay.................Sleep as well as we all do. If you'll let me keep here.
Staying. Realizing. Breathing.
The ending. When will it come? Of the bubbles in my spine, you know?
So short. Like a tiny thread.

L A T E

I love you like the moon when it's full and the sky is black, and the stars are bright, broken holes in the blanket of ebony. I love you like the halo of soft, misty light that surrounds the moon on the nights without wind, without clouds, without anything but breath. I love you like the distant crickets, chirping a childhood lullaby on a perfectly warm night. I love you like soaring specks of wheat rushing gently in a healing breeze. I love you like the music of the whispers of the wind, and the melodies of the water falling over age-smoothed stones. I love you like the moon when it is so yellow, so low, so close... you can almost taste the poignant richness of melting bliss. 

clear as gold

Born across the river from you

Born across the sea

Taking strides of wisdom
Faltering, shaking, ellipsis
Ongoing like the tides

The broken village of every footstep.

Fields of wheat

Of tall golden stalks swaying

Like a breeze of shining.

Laughter is every seed
That falls to it’s life
Revitalization.
Is this what we need

What we want

What we lead as our will
As our love

As our sacrifice.

Like secret messages kept in cherries

That go unblemished

Near the bottom of the day.

maybe we're all blackbirds sometimes

i guess this will probably be a little more formal than most. but then again maybe not. i mean, as far as my thoughts go, I've never even understood them, so to take a step and assume that someone else would i suppose makes me slightly idealistic, pretentious even. i guess i'm not sure how long love lasts, or how fast it can begin, but maybe i'll know if i listen to enough mainstream pop, since there are claims in such to understand this thing called love. in reality, all they understand is selfish lusts. and i pray, consistently, that i never understand. that. we can capitalize our entire lives, and name the letters with alternate memories... and still end up with absolutely nothing but a name. and what is a name, but a name? for a rose is still a rose, a girl is still a girl, a broken heart is still a broken heart, music is still music. and love will always still be love, even in various forms. and maybe the world looks at best friends and scoffs, saying there is greater romantic potential. but i disagree. i don't mind rocking the boat, but recently, i've realized that it's okay to keep it steady, as well. while some must escape areas of comfort to lead, i can be strong enough to escape my areas of comfort and follow causes that matter to me, and that I trust and believe in. a cause that forgives. that loves everyone. that thinks i'm beautiful. that is full of peace stronger than a storm. a cause that is always with me. a cause that loves color and is very imaginative. a cause that likes it when i tell stories, and never changes. a cause that is my father. a cause that is the source of every good in the universe. that is a cause worth rocking the boat for, a cause worth trampling my name in the dusty remnants of fame and fortune and saying yes. yes to love as pure as it can be, and yes to a time for everything. now... it is time to jump into these waters that appear to be ice cold. lets be polar bears.