These are the days

But they have turned to nights
and our fingers,
soldiers,
steadfast at attention,
begin to claw at obscurity
in search of means to halt
perpetual motion,
to bring rest to the weary.

Snow Hog?

Last night I saw an obese man riding a motorcycle.

It was snowing.

He wins.

Copperhead Winter

The air is biting;
ravenous,
surrounding quickly as
it consumes like a viper,
savoring the bones to a shiver
without breaking the skin.
As each whispered wish for warmth is shed from our mouths
they dissipate inside the churning depths of this serpentine season.

A picture is worth 1000 words, but words are futile

Her smile is daybreak
and a gentle shake which brings consciousness;
I arise basking in the bright glow
which leaves behind restless nights

Her voice is the cadence of a grand orchestra
sounding off a joyous requiem for the sorrow,
now and forever, devoid of a beating black heart

Her touch is a hush
silencing the static of incessant thought;
palpating the soul.

Two Step, Twirl and Fade

The room is tiny but clean
despite dust passing through rays of light like dancers in a waltz;
individual specks disappearing,
invisible,
as others gracefully cross the threshold
creating a seemingly endless, silent choreographed number.

I step outside and take in all isolation has to offer;
dwarfed by nature
illusions of grandeur erode with every degree of horizon,
the universe leans in close to whisper
"there is no light dancing inside you, you are dancing in light"

But Aren't We All Tourists?

There is life down here;
a teeming, delicate microcosm.
I move like a leaf blowing across an empty street
to my always transient destination
with the hot, thick air in my lungs
as I toy with perfecting that New York walk.
you know the one,
no contact
weaving through the walking dead
like a needle which desires the finished stitch
more than the hand pushing it through fabric;
yet I'm tethered to nothing
unchained
until my fucking blackberry catches a signal.

Like Flesh

Her fibers engorged
drinking deep the flowing emotions
moving gently with the rhythm of his hand
scratching ink and metal
turns the desert into an oasis
words, shift back and forth,
feverishly scrawled until
the poet is spent
the paper's thirst subsides;
in the quiet moments thereafter
they stare and embrace
letting go the moment
until their passion again swells

Lessons in pyrotechnics and botany

I came upon a flower
In an otherwise barren field
Pushing through the snowy ash of
My journey's countless firestorms.
Her beauty, overwhelming;
The contrast of white petals on a black earth.

The air, once filled with the pungent scent of burning flesh and lies,
now is clear.

The journey takes a new turn

This path shall no longer be forsaken as I breathe deep and
begin to build my kingdom along side her,
intertwining our roots.

Urban Transfusion

This evening,
The people flow like breath from lungs riddled with stab wounds;
Slow and labored.
Through the veins and arteries
Of this great city
The blood is tired as it circulates
Another cycle.

oh snap! first post in like 2 years!

Streetfare.


Parting the crowd like a heated, rusty blade
through pristine snow
his aching blistered feet carry him as if in a dream to the place housing his destruction.
Each day his mouth empties of pleas for change;
each passerby a silent ear to his suicide note of incoherent ramblings,
his tounge arid and trembling for another sip
so he may sleep peacefully beside the demons
who brought him here
to spend his days a wreck as a broken statute of a man among the millions of perfect china dolls.

romance in analog

counterintuitive clockwise motion

stretches the arms when you

tug at the wrists,

push and twist the ligaments

around back to a time of innocence;

around back before we kissed

when i will leave your mouth

like the final drag of a quitter’s last cigarette;

held behind quivering, pursed lips and dispersed longingly

"For anyone who is a nobody"

you said you wanted to see all the beautiful colors in life
so i put stained glass shards in your eyes
you said you wanted to taste the world
so i sent pieces of your tongue all over the earth
you said you just want to be happy
i called you a liar.

The others have yet to be written

I

A quickening pulse upon my lips

Accompanies hands whom awaken before dawn

In a tired act revived to its original splendor.

The sun has come to retire the moon,

Entwined in a new days beginning.

II

Every poet is a thief

How many lines must I steal in admiration before I take your attention?

The hands of time are no longer spinning incessantly;

They’re tugging at your heartstrings adoringly

As your mind works out a conundrum

Of grace before passion.

III

In the warmth of her smile

In the cold of uncertainty

I kneel unarmed and unmoved before a wall fortified in haste.

Kiss me again as I camp under stars and daylight

Awaiting arid mortar.

Sugar, Poison, and Everything in Between

Picture perfect reflections or reinvented pasts
There are no scars to prove the tales I have to tell
Catch me if you can, I’m faster than I look
are you even looking?

Like a conflagration I’ll consume
The coppice shielding your fancy
Exposing you
For all you’re going to be worth
And all you’re made of
Trembling naked
In a sea of tears

Aren’t I beautiful?
Is this what you wanted?
Touch me and sink slowly into forgetfulness
Just say stop
And I’ll consume you as well.

Wishing on Corpses

He says to bless the meek with gentle whispers and compassionate hearts;

plague the lonely with sharp words and stone cold stares.

Forsaken are the meek when lonely,

For they cut open their chests with introspection.

Countless pennies are wasted on prayers

I say bless those who created the wishing well;

letting us believe we could buy ourselves a new hope.

Tie them up and throw them in.
The water will cure the emptiness of their lungs and a coin will rest beneath their tongues to open the gates of a new home.

when the world was sleeping


This is the moment we didn't realize was worth waiting for;
Seconds and minutes slow to the touch

You breathe me in

And amidst confusion

There is clarity

“I Am The King of Market Street”

7:49, Tuesday morning.

This red light only stops me for a while.

To my right, the shops still sleep

Dreaming of new sidewalks and awnings made of silver and gold.

A lone man pushes himself against traffic

He touches every tree jammed into the slowly warming concrete

accurate and smooth

With brief, gentle strokes

Behind glasses his eyes glare forward, lost in thought

His feet guiding him

As if he’s been here before.

"untitled”

while butterflies were sleeping in chrysalis, the moths of my stomach ate away at their wings. sometimes when I fall too fast, the rattling carcasses vaguely resemble excitement.

…and there are no street lights.

Lighten up on the gas; there’s no rush to get home. Up ahead lay the death of a season blanketed under a tree lined horizon. Blood shot caffeinated eyes claw at surrounding silhouettes; mortarboards and bullets. I feign sleep when all is silent. It’s better than waking; better than reliving each recycled day anew.

Advice comes from tongues not afflicted with the silence of failure. Despite how much it hurts to admit defeat; I will rise above and no longer renege on my future. Despite how much it pains me to acknowledge this hardship is my own design, I must press on.

“Precious Moments”

The doors open and
Like a suicide jumper with second thoughts halfway down,
There is no turning back.
You pulled me from the shelf of trophies and memories
To paint over the glitter on my cheek with tears.
I’m porcelain.
A figurine.
The souvenir of your graduation summer,
Posed with arms outstretched and dressed in pastel.
Perhaps it wasn’t your intention to make me
A piece in your collection
Or to let me slip through clumsy fingers,
But the ground is rushing up to meet me;
To scatter me across an empty room.
You keep your hands at your side
Motionless
As I fall.