And the crows sink into the wires
Feasting on Famine
And contemplating the induction
Of I into team.

Her mind bakes like
Bread, in the caverns
Of her skull.
Cloaked by satin,
Sheen and long,
So flowing.
Draping her vision
To which I want
To be.

I am not butter,
I am not jam.

Those men
In red
Apple orchards
(Cut with the
Scent of wood
And visual
Greyness of
Voluminous sky)
Rhyming about
Security and
The distress
Of distance
And isolation
Told me something
My friends
Mocked me for.

Sharing such
A secret
Would make
Us friends,
So I can't tell.

Your fearless slippers and your
Lackluster hair defend your
Psychological defects better
Than the armies of Freud
And Skinner.

As you accumulate static with every
Swiping disruption
Flowing with time
And preventing
Loss of interest
I watch you toss
And turn
Into the bedroom.
You trot with
Every last stitch
and hem of your skirt.

Because it's a plus
To know your sheets are clean
And your pillow still provides support.
I'm just comic relief,
But I don't get prime time slots.

That flower never said a good word about you. I fed it every day with the water it desired. It soaked in sun, it soaked in my thoughts. I kissed it goodnight. It lied to me about you. It told me your faults, things I already knew, but it exaggerated them. Your sensationalized new persona, completely distributed by the flowers scent. It appealed to me though. It knew things that I care not talk about, or say around family. It grew every so slightly every day.

Five strides from visual confirmation.

I accept that and ignore movement.

Structured in polyester, by chair I sit

And watch the unconfirmed, but likely, display

To me something my eyes are fixed on.

With every word jotted down, the seconds in

Between silence and serenity fulfill a

Void of time and destination.

For I too drink water in abundance and

I tend to enjoy it cold.

Those like me sway in delight as their

Self coveted, self converted nourishment tickles

Their every extremity and leaves

No question of acceptance and peace.

As their colors are distinguished through

A clean sheet of glass

I think to myself:

Why am I not standing with them?

Why am I rooted in a different ground?

The scent is as
Satiating as pine
Needles dripping
Heroin into our veins.

And we look at the
Sky because our necks
Are too heavy to hold
Our eyes back.

I lift up my hand
And point out every
Droplet of rain
That imperviously
Falls into your
Flesh.


Here we lay for hours,
With nothing to do,
No where to go.
And for once in my life I know no misery.

I
taper off as this
Uneasy conclusion
Seems to be more
Of a peak.

I watch it drain into the valley,
That for all intensive purposes,
I will describe to you as delusional
destitution.

And from the back light of the
Subsequent peak in the distance,
I notice that I too am not alone.

While our breathe intermingles
With the terminally healthy
Our spilled drinks turn dry
By the sun's examination.

I question the patrons of
The sugar coated ethanol.
With their sugar coated ideals
And sides of salted crackers.

Their mouth's remain dry by
Their bodies dehydration,
So I whisper in your ear,
"We're not like them,
But I am still parched."

My skin cells attach to the tips of
Your fingers as they glide
Down the sloping patterns of creation.
And you discuss with me things
That have nothing to do with biology
Because in the context in which they're
Spoken
There is no time for intelligence.
"I love you."
Yeah, well I love you too.