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.

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

I carry.

I carry constellations/ inscribed on my thighs/ criss-crossing lacerations/ connect the dots/ with edges dull/ from overuse/ I carry truisms/ secrets locked behind/ personal boundaries/ I carry lock picks/ only the determined/ can break in/ I carry lost/ memories of innocence/ burn incense/ to hide my/ attempts to remember/ less and feel/ I carry irrationalities/ flooding into me/ through a hole/ in my temple/ the 60s would/ have given me/ I carry my wallet/ with no pictures/ for reasons I/ forget/ why would I/ ever want to/ lose you who/ gave me your/ heart/ a handhold on/ a flat faced/ mountain/ chalk full of/ uncertainties.

8th and Myrtle

Traffic is busy today.
There’s a man in a wheel chair
attempting to cross the street.

12 seconds left, a driver in a red
Subaru is waiting, impatiently,
to turn. Passes within a foot.

It’s winter so there’s not much sun
there is one bench in the light
right next to a guitarist performing

on the floor. The wind makes me
struggle to light my cigarette, he
walks over to me and asks me to hand

him my lighter. I do. He makes a silo
shape in his hand to block the wind.
I give him a cigarette – smokers code.

He talks to me about the times when
he was desperate for a smoke. I wonder
if he can see me. He tells me that I’ll get

better with practice. Music starts again
and this time I listen. He is okay.
There’s no donation container.

Winter Waltz.

My first dance came at twenty-one
with the taste of cherries heavy
on my lips, on my breath, in my chest
feet stumbling from one too many drinks.

Less ballroom more like a winter waltz
with winds billowing me, whistling in my ear
You only have one shot, one chance, one life,
so even though you know you can’t: just dance.