"For in my passionate effort to breathe painting like air, my life ceases to exist as anything but a personal playground." 

"I will continue to eat the fanaticism that drives me towards the pit of passion. Perhaps, when I am done eating, I will plant the seed, and watch it grow."

"Hitherto"

I write this with a loving hand,

to sew it together with written reprimand,

to lace it loosely for doubt has fallen,

in my heart a weakening called sullen.

                         

 hitherto,

I write this with a loving hand,

for friend, foe, or a lover’s curse to stand,

for short where I find in all my woes,

you’ll be the one who shoots the crow.

                           

hitherto,

I write this with a loving hand,

and I’ll watch it’s black eyes roll like a can,

and I’ll try to catch the feathers that wilt to rote,

never more according to the Edgar Allen Poe.

                            

hitherto...

"Knitted"

I pulled on a single thread of a knitted sweater,

to watch it grow—to watch it unwind.

As if there was something captivating,

about the thread’s fraying hands.

I looked at your startled face—

Your eyes gleaming—

At my fingers encasing the thread,

I blinked.

And as I did,

I motioned for your hand to grasp the thread.

The wool was urging you—I was urging you.

Yet you shuddered.

Like the unraveling of a knitted sweater,

you’ve withered—you’ve weakened.

As you inched further from my outstretched hand,

I pulled it back to me,

the red string now,

more noticeable than the white—

I grasped the red string—

And tugged it hard—

Until it broke.

All that was left,

was the unraveled

knitted sweater,

and an empty seat.

"Roads"

There’s a road everyone speaks about. It’s a cliché nostalgia to writers, a rerun in linear perspective that artists are only too eager to change the channel on, and for the realists—a piece of pavement everyone wishes at one time or another, to get onto, and to get off of.  Yet, when it comes to the theme of our lives, we want to know right where this road is. What avenue? What exit do we take to get onto it? We spend every ounce of ourselves to figure out that we are all born on this road, yet we squander twice that to figure out where our road will go. Or how to fill the potholes, even how to save the lives of those who have crashed onto it. The cars that seemingly date our roads, marry our roads, and have baby cars on our roads, all become flashes on the “caution: roadwork ahead” sign that slows us to a near halt. Eventually we haunt our roads. Learning we ourselves have crashed every couple of miles and our shoes have been ripped clean off of our feet in the process. Now, all that’s left is to walk and feel every piece of rubble we created. Every so often we collapse from dehydration, and as our faces lay against the pavement we apologize to ourselves. We apologize for not drinking enough; we apologize for wanting so badly to get onto this road in the first place—despite the fact that we were all born here. We apologize for all the coulda, shoulda, wouldas that make up the car crashes, the engine stalls, the bare feet, the speeding tickets making up every meter, in every mile, that we’ve traveled. When we finally forgive ourselves for not buying a GPS (not that we could have anyway), we begin the process of traveling down our roads again. On occasion, much like a housewarming, we find ourselves in a car with a group of people; they leave on will, you never open the door for them. That’s a rule of the road. You never open the door for them. That’s just how it is. So as we hear the car doors slam and open back up we wonder how long it’ll take us to get to the next rest stop. We wonder why we even bothered getting onto the exits we have. Nonetheless, what we can all discern for ourselves, without any wondering, is that our roads will never leave us behind. We continue down our roads changing the channel so not to upset the artists; we continue down our roads forcing the writers to suck on ice to help their upset stomachs, and we continue down our roads for the realists—because after all, if we didn’t, then the one who manufactures our roads would be out of order; ironically, like our only gas station. 

"Let yourself acquire a dream that would become a nightmare to the conformity of society. It will be there that you'll find yourself in a field of wheat instead of on a paved street of gold. For alas, it is better to choose to eat the bread you have reaped and sowed, then to sit alone with all your gold."

"How to Save a Soul" --(subject to be altered/changed)

I stand here on the corner of Third and Fourth Street. It connects in a way that leaves no seams for me to count, no cracks for me to break my mother’s back on, and only one pothole to collect the beggar’s change. So I just stand there with my umbrella and smell the air that is intoxicatingly warning me of rain. But it doesn’t rain. It will never rain here; I think if it did, I wouldn’t even know how to open my umbrella—(even though I did.) And the people who have stopped with me on this street corner—however brief, know this too. I am barefoot, so I begin to wonder when I will feel the burning concrete against the pads of my feet. As I shake the invisible rain off of my umbrella I feel a cloud swelling from within me. It pushes against my ribs working down to my stomach as a passerby bumps frantically into my shoulder, managing to shake loose a chip of bone. I wince at this feeling of bone loss; what if I begin to shrink? Still yet, the cloud makes my stomach bloat. As if this allegorical whirl of matter is the only means to suffice the feeling clenched tight between my teeth. Am I suffocating?

Grasping the old man next to me, he shows me no mercy, and shakes me off. Like how I shake my umbrella to clear off the rain I never felt. I kneel here on the corner; allowing the sensation of the chipped bone to tumble like a grain of sand off of each rib until it landed onto my inflated stomach. With both hands on the seamless concrete, my body forced itself to dry heave in attempt to drive the bone out. For it was pressing nauseatingly against the cloud welling in the skin of my stomach. Still yet, the old man stood, never moving his gaze from across the way. I winced and tried to imagine it as just a blink as the old man, who was still standing there, coughed. I could see his abdomen push in and out—yet it did not implode. Will I?

The beggar sang. It was a tune of infidelity—by which time the old man became uneasy and in haste left me. The pothole remained empty before him. The cloud continued to cause waves of nausea, (by which I could not ignore for it forced the tiny broken bone to wobble about on the encasing of my stomach) my umbrella pressed up against my sides, the smell of the air—as always, dry. And I groveled to think of the possibility of rain to ease the dry breath. Alas, as I lay in an estranged agony, I wondered if it did rain; could I drown?

The spot next to me on the street did not remain vacant for long. A woman in heavy makeup took the place of the old man, and she too, stood there, without noticing me—her gaze fixed like the old man’s. I’d question their compassion if only the hot cement did not boil a steam to eradicate my throat. The woman looked down for a split second, her lips redder than the burns on my feet. I could feel the sun continue to proliferate out across the concrete as I watched her lick her front teeth. The lipstick that was stuck on them was the least of my worries. With a shaking arm, I jerked on her leather skirt, again unvoiced, but in all attempt worth the plea. She didn’t budge, not even an inch. Instead, she resettled her gaze outwards after scraping some nail polish off of her thumb. The cloud, I could sense was becoming moist—despite the parched air. The bone relaxing now, with little movement, making home—perhaps it will start a family?

The beggar sang. This time, it was a tune of inexperience—the woman fidgeted in her own skin, cropping her skirt up as she walked away from me. The pothole remained empty. I endeavored to roll over; taking the chance to upset the small bone and reset the cloud into an uproar of intangible pain, I felt compelled to shift and this time look at the beggar. In doing so, I managed to pull myself back up only to realize the beggar was missing his shoes, his shirt, and was only wearing a worn down pair of lounging pants…my umbrella laid still on the ground. I grasped my stomach and almost doubled over into the beggar’s pothole. He did not look at me. Merely, he cast-ironed his eyes into the pothole formed in the cement. The cloud inside me was expanding slowly placing more pressure onto my ribs as the beggar reached into his empty pothole. I wriggled in my skin as the cloud became so boisterous, that it simply began to spill from my porous skin. It poured, and it poured, and as hard as I tried I couldn’t stop the water from spilling out from me. It oozed out of my fingernails, wept from my eyes, and more so left my hot feet in a puddle—which I should further mention, was becoming much more than a “puddle”. As the water leaked from me, it forced my body to heave once more. The bone finally relinquishes from my body, and fell precariously into the pothole. The cloud that was welling up was now slowly relieving itself.

Suddenly, my ears perked to the sound of the beggar singing. This time it was a tune of luxury. The beggar kept singing as the water that filled the pothole, stayed there because of the broken bone blocking the only fissure that would let it flow elsewhere.   The water glimmered under the hot sun and began to instantly steam. I stood in front of the beggar and watched him hum, watched him scoop the water between his hands and lift it up to his dry lips. I grabbed my umbrella—opened it wide, and not just before my feet felt the urge to leave in the same direction as the old man and the woman, the beggar spoke, “Don’t you sense the rain coming?” ….and I couldn’t help but wonder, can he see me?

“If you wish to spread anything across this earth, let from it, grow love. For only love can cure the famine of a barren field.”

"Quenchable"

You are thirsty.

                            

                             So cut open the cactus.

It’s bone dry.

                           

                             The words “try again,” carved into its skin.

You are bleeding.

                           

                             Still yet—

Thirsty.

                           

                             So break open the coconut.

It’s vacant.

                          

The words “why wait,” engraved into its shell.

You are sore.  

                          

Still yet—

Thirsty.

                          

So milk the goat.

Teats are barren.

                          

The words, “just drink,” tattooed across its backside.

You are desperate.

                        

Still yet—

Thirsty.

                        

"Rebirth"

Will someone kiss the flower,

that burdens her garden?

That ceases to relinquish her thrown?

Take this thorn and plunge it down,

for in the ground I fall to ought,

be withered as she in her glorious reign?!

A queen no more—I shutter to feign,

LIFE!—Gives me no more struggles,

but indeed I wish to kiss the flower,

that has befallen the winter’s curse,

and has been laid before me,

as a new rebirth!

"The Ants"

Honey is spilled down the kitchen sink.

Sifted and strained, the aroma remains.

Sweet as the pollen in the peony’s frame.

But ants grow envious of an intrinsic claim.

For bees are masters in this craft to be tame.

                               -----

Honey has dripped down the counter’s top.

To stick and slide whilst ignored by the mop.

Ants in the house are curious for such crop.

Where bees no longer greed gold in a shop.

Ants like a bee, rejoined to what’s sweet,

Means, there is no need, for the peony. 

"Winter's Eyes"

 Winter had nothing on the ice that was glazing your eyes.

It was as if someone turned off all your reactions—

in a flash,

Ripped the reset button away from my hands,

 To deny me, despite my unremitting pleas.

I saw you weary—

lifeless.

 A battery with no charge.

Winter had nothing on the chill

 I got seeing you for the first time.

Show me the flower

growing out of the snow my dear—

For that is how you looked at me.

 I only wish to pluck it

from the compacted drift,

Pull off each petal,

 and watch winter melt,

with

the

falling

flesh.

“When my hands are tied behind my back—I do not fear for the vulnerability of my body, but for the exposure of my heart.” 

“The bee unfamiliar with the garden will produce bitter honey.”

"The spaces we fill in our day to day lives become the worlds 

we as individuals, produce in our dreams."

"Starry Night"

Some nights, when the sill gets lonely,

I lay my chin upon its chest.

I breathe slow, like the rise and fall,

of the moth under the streetlamp.

I rest my forehead against the screen,

And let my lips push against the cold divider.

The sky is violet, while the stars burn yellow.

I wonder if this is what the starry night really looks like?

I wonder if Van Gogh would paint me…

In the window of the tall churning tree.

Watching the moth flutter under the golden halo,

As I kiss the screen. 

"The Sun"

The sun forces its orange kiss,

against my brow.

The beads of sweat,

becoming a temptress to my tongue.

The thirst clenching my throat,

drying my lips brittle from exhaust.

I fell to my knees, lifted my head up,

lifted it up—in surrender to the God,

or perhaps Gods,

Who had painted this red portrait,

swathed in blisters.

I felt my skin shrink with the desert crust.

The sun,

Looks a lot like me now—right?

Swathed in blisters—red?

I dropped upon my back,

reached out for the sun,

clutched it tight,

between my pathetic hands.

I forced it against my body.

The sun jerked its orange lips,

away from my brow.

I imposed its flesh against my skin—

to tempt it.

"The Killdeer Cry"

Sing with me a sleepless wonder,

for if not, I shall soon ponder.

If love of everlasting purity,

rests upon your brow with insecurity.

For if so, then sing with me not tonight,

nor any passing turns of flight.

I will seek no further your heart of tin,

but gold or silver, which I crave to win.

Sing with me until the killdeer cry,

As I tilt my head to your nodding sigh.

If love were to ever become lasting,

it would be now, as we breech the end,

of our hunger’s fasting. 

"Written Love"

A feather will falter on its anemic spine,

        If I press hard,

            a shudder romanced from rime.

Parchment will rend from a single fiber to its bone

        If I fall for lust,

            a fable winter has read with a moan.

Velvet ink will discharge from a fluted chalice,

        If I flail,

            a tumultuous tremor tempted from callus.

An envelope will shrink with a cocked forlorn,

        If I cease writing,

            an act from a heart feeling suborn.

Lips will grow cold despite their plump, red flush,

        If I can’t kiss,

            a souvenir expressing my trust.

A heart will await love if these words induce beat,

        If I embrace serenity,

            a virtue born for me to meet. 

"The Bed"

The corroded bed frame sulks low,

Cocked against the wallpaper empty of seams.

The dust wafts and bellows from below,

Which has been there since your last dreams.

I polish off the remains of your presence,

For it wasn’t long before my delusion,

That I was confined in your reminisce.

Beseeched from lone, I go before conclusion,

Which neither judge nor jury could purge from purity.

The mattress flipped; gashed, shows my faint insecurity.

Culpable for the malformed frame, in time I’ll know,

Just what nightmare these iron bars will reap and sow.

"To Loom Honey"

Honey falls sweet on a tangerine bloom,

If I were in reverie, so dear to me,

I’d savor the honey to thread in a loom.

To weave it strong amidst the bee.

The hive might miss this humble servant,

But racing thoughts to suckle what’s sweet

Has long since left me fervently.

For my loom rusts against the garden’s feet,

And I am left alone to reverie.

Bees look restless awaiting their queen,

And I am not she, so my love must sever me.

The honey I can’t suck leaves me lean,

If I weren’t in reverie, so dear to me,

I’d weave the blooms of tangerine.