Collector’s issue

There’s a collectors issue of a poetry anthology
that lies strewn across the floor of a room I moved
into months ago but the toxicity of a gift is often
more than enough to issue a level five quarantine

There’s a murder scene of over buttered popcorn bags
seemingly reproducing without reason but that reason
is they’re fucking delicious and sometimes that’s
more than enough to issue a cease and desist

There’s a phone charger on the wall three feet from me
and there’s a phone, that is mine, that is dead two feet
from the charger because it doesn’t matter and that’s
more than enough.

I seep poison through silence the most deadly
of all face to face interactions because I truly
do not know the cause  but that’s
more than enough to say, enough.

Kiss me.

Kiss me in the hallway when everyone looks elsewhere
Kiss me in the hallway when everyone is looking
Kiss me on the top of a stairway,
Kiss me on top the floor
Kiss me on top of the bed
Kiss me in the rain
Kiss me in the snow
Kiss me like it’s the last time
Kiss me like it’s the first time,
Kiss me like the future excites you
Kiss me like your past didn’t happen
Kiss me because it did
Kiss me so it won’t
Kiss me to speak
Kiss me to listen
Kiss me like its too late
Kiss me like its too soon
Kiss me because I’m worth it
Kiss me because you deserve it
Kiss me like it’s a mistake
Kiss me like it’s a miracle
Kiss me like you hate it
Kiss me like you want it
Kiss me like you love me
Kiss me because I love you
Kiss me because I want to
Kiss me like I’m the mistake
kiss me like it’s gods grace
Kiss me like we’re all that exists
Please.

The Lost Boy

There exists within me
a boy lost, wandered too far,
wondered too much, and for
that he payed the price,
veiled in a shrouded uncertainty
never to see the light of day

I see him every now and then,
the reflection of a dirty mirror
a reminder, a clue perhaps,
to when it began.

I see him in the reflection of passing
cars, the reflection of a seat belt
I am here he cries, begging for an answer
to a question I’m not sure even exists.

Deep in the blurry lines of my memory
you’ll find this boy. Trapped, caught
in too many good intentions, too many
what-ifs and what shoulds. Too
many masks, this heavy burden I carry
so delicately.

Looking down at my watch to see
the image of the lost boy and for the
first time I finally realized,

It’s me? 

Canopy

I hear singing,
like pesty light
slipping its way
through a canopy
creating a sliver
of light onto
you and me
and I realize
that song of yours
is the only one I need.

-Lines from a book
I’ll never write.

Dawn.

There was a time where words came easy,
like breathing or the fluttering of the heart
aching for the day where the darkness leaves me
but it seems so difficult to rip it apart.

I bleed black ink onto pages
the allure of other colors so far gone
living life in whole new stages,
I fear this dusk will not bring a dawn.

Autumn Stars.

There will be a story to be told
when these September leaves fall,
making lasting impressions of
bodily sensations from the times
you stepped on Autumn itself.
A satisfied crunch and the turn
of a heel as if to make a point
you smiled and I saw all the seasons
in your eyes, passion of summer,
frigid breaths in backseats, and
a spring so hopeful that these
flowers you planted in my heart
so long ago continue you to  glow,
put your hands  in mine and I’ll read
you the story of the stars and the sky.

Phantom

Wasted breaths, empty words
creating verbal silhouettes
disjointed pulsation towards a
heart split in fragmented locations.

Little Green People.

There is a family of little green people
lying underneath my bed. At night I can
smell their cooking, the sound of a sizzling
skillet frying eggs they stole from my fridge.

The father has a bum leg from the time
where he fought the demons that used
to live there, hollowing out a home to
keep a roof over their heads

because living on the street isn’t easy
when you’re green. He tried begging
but that didn’t work so he bought
a guitar and made his poverty a performance.

We met in the Grove Plaza and I sat down
with him. I offered my home because these
streets are not safe for little green people.

Call it magic.

Bodies curled together, twisted and distorted
stuck between too many good intentions.
Pluck a quarter from your ear blow
away dirt off rough edges.

Call it magic
Call it innocence
Call me a con-man with no place
in this peculiarity you
Call social smoking

Balconies were made for Romeo and Juliet
dear Mrs. Rosenberg lend me a kiss
lets do it in public for the world to see
that not even death has a way

Put your hand on my chest
listen to my heart beat and
tell me what it has to say
about the chemicals I ingested today

One to make the heart beat fast.
One to make the hear beat slow.
One to make my body fat.
One to make my body un-fat.
One to keep my brain intact
the one to make sure the crazy
stays far away.

This my love
is my love song

to you.

 

Memories of Uncertainty