Absolom

Don't you wish you could see it all
like the signs on the side of the road
saying "fog may exist."
The tide rolls in
obscured by the paper
with no ink of retreat
and no hand holding the pen
to show it all stretched out.
Don't you wish
you could see it all?

The Battle of the Papacy

Polarity's bullets aren't
fired
because I can't find
the trigger.

I Look Better In Black

Is orange the color? I didn't know.
It doesn't fit everyone like you say it does
It doesn't fit much of anyone at all
It doesn't fit me.
You tell me to like it
But it's out of place
There's nothing here for it
But the flip end of the magnet
Pushing it back into my arms.

Originality

Re-puncturing the public eardrums
synthetic lace ringed with coffee
pretending not to be
in the arrowhead of a baroque modernity.

The Art of Misinterpretation

Words in the dryer
warm to the touch
until fingertips
steal
their sincerity.
Powder falls into
my prints, yours
meaning settling
in the creases and folds
differently
every time
until they are as cold
as when
they started
so you put them back in
and hope
the heat holds.

Pointless Party Games

We crush the pebbles under sandaled feet
The dirt becomes a whisper in the past
to dwindle to the heart's unending beat
and leave predictions wondering, aghast.

The stars sit in their seat above our heads
with lives as tokens, tossing wooden dice
Philosophizing, lying in our beds
pretending there is room in paradise

directions circling endlessly like wind
but never blowing where the meter aims
No bets are placed on those who haven't sinned
And glory's patrons, only those with claim

There are no gods observing from their clouds
Dead six feet down, not looking to be proud.

Old Souls

In the time of the classics

their thoughts coursed

multiplied

fed on themselves

and intertwined

under the stars

they mingled

realizing the reflection

in the face

of the other

in the time of the classics

together they talked of gods

worlds

stars

met by their eyes

in the blackness

their eyes

in the time of the classics

boundaries

like running watercolors

never bleeding

but becoming art

reflected

by the stars

stars

that absorbed them

their essence

their eyes

absorbed by the stars

in the time of the classics.

Night Drives

The cool air

sits still

leaving only a gentle breeze

to cool the pores

of the people

still stuck in the day

not yet transitioned

still becoming accustomed

to the stillness

whose racing minds

are still slowing

morphing to the tranquility

of the air

the rushing colors

becoming one

a cool blanket

to calm the world

drawing all attentions

to one single

glitter

that draws away the stress

of the hectic

as long as it can

be seen

and felt

through open windows.

Like the Rain

Listen
to the downpour from the sky
falling freely from the clouds
to mingle with the earth
and hang from the leaves
Watch
as it patters harmlessly
on the head of the woman
as she sits in her windowsill
guitar on her knee
swinging her bare foot in the cold drizzle
and it drips onto the strings
that she plucks mindlessly
letting her fingers wander freely
through the droplets
to find a new chord
her eyes are closed
and she hums a melody
never before scripted
and it drips into the hollow
vibrating ever so slightly
as her thumb scrolls out a new melody
making the wood echo
with the sounds of her song
the drops chase the strings
like a wild love
free to go where they will
but always choosing the same path
dripping
away from the window
to what lies below
the sky never clears
and the drops just keep coming
but the song
finishes
and the woman goes inside
and dries her guitar
and leaves it propped
in a corner
to be brought out again
like the rain.