the shaky glowing boy tries to taste words he can't hear

Stay away;

She knows.

Be gay.

Hide your eyes;

She glows.

He tries.

Don’t escape;

She masks.

Just gape.

Dare to frown;

She gasps.

Goin' down.

Wait for words;

She sighs.

Take hers.

He just might.

She lies;

It’s all right.

Miss Safari

Miss Safari, know I’m sorry, I never meant to pry
into the taped up lie you yourself must had to die
to breathe life into.
Please, Miss Safari, it's still dark before the dawn,
but I see that in your eyes there lies something true.

Take away the stomach pain that I am waking of,
I can’t stand the morning dove, but if he finds me
send my love, I’ll be crawling from above
down to the basement.
Sleep won’t be so easy without the comfort of your voice,
I wish this was my choice, but my blanket feels so moist,
and the father clock has rejoiced
three times this evening.

Miss Safari, know I’m sorry, I did not look
into your stapled book you only gave me once you took
all of the pages from my heart that you went through.
Please, Miss Safari, it's still dark before the dawn,
but I see that in your eyes there lies something true.

Run away without your shoes resting at my door,
I think I’ve seen this once before,
I don’t recognize my floor that I swear
I will restore before you come to.
Your marching band has fallen down, your handsome guard is sick,
he has fallen for my trick, so we’ll sit upon this brick,
maybe this time you won't be so quick
to throw it towards me.

Miss Safari, know I’m sorry, I should’ve known
that the seeds have all been sewn and have already grown

into the plants I ate at the zoo.
Please, Miss Safari, it's still dark before the dawn,
but I see that in your eyes there lies something true.

Leave me here, lying in this rotten jungle mud,
after all, I’m nothing but your bud, choking on this day-old crud,
left to lick my syrup blood from the wounds
you have reopened.
Give away your treasured smile while hiding in the brush,
I’m not saying there’s any rush, but pretty soon you’ll
start to blush, and the bladed grass, so lush,
will cut your golden hair.

Miss Safari, know I’m sorry, I should’ve lied,
and silently have cried at the gates I’ve left behind,
so wasted and askew.
Please, Miss Safari, it's still dark before the dawn,
but I see that in your eyes there lies something true.

Excuse my manners, madam, but I think I scraped my knee,
and who apologizes but me,

for tripping on a tree, and though no one did see,

I did get blood on it.
I know I make the same mistakes, but I only need a week,
to kill this inside freak, so impossible to seek,
until he knows I’m weak and
plays with my tired thumbs.

Miss Safari, know I’m sorry, I came too soon,
a washed-up quarter moon, fed again by my own spoon
the antidote I can’t renew.
Please, Miss Safari, it's still dark before the dawn,
but I see that in your eyes there lies something true.

imm|unity|

I | am not immune to Chapstick

Chapstick | was not immune to Juliet

Juliet | was not immune to Romeo

Romeo | was not immune to Love

Love | is not immune to Poison

Poison | is not immune to this Voice

This Voice | is not immune to Children

Children | are not immune to Snowmen

Snowmen | are not immune to Stars

Stars | are not immune to Cancer

Cancer | is not immune to Hope

Hope | is not immune to this Bottle of Wine

This Bottle of Wine | is not immune to you

Just as |you| are not immune to |me|

the snow began to fall...

Forty-five minutes spent lying in the darkness,
until finally, their faces were painted by the sun.
They watched the snow creeping into the window;
heard its muffled knock, and saw its wet tongue.

It spilled into the empty glasses,
and drenched all that was near,
leaving a trail proclaiming—
Winter Is Here.

All the mangled sons and daughters are gathered,
sweet Mother Nature’s pushed them inside.
They wrap each other in babies’ blankets,
and huddle pathetically near the fireside.

They all tell stories of their fathers
and they each cry a single tear,
while a neon sign is glowing—
Summer Was Here.

These sons and daughters have only each other now,
Left to kill any hint of Summer that might remain.
They’re throwing letters, applications, and paper hearts—
All just to feed the thirsty flame.

Down, down come the ashes of the frozen youth,
blanketing the flowers we planted, my dear,
that used to sing—
Spring Will Be Here.

Money Tree

I found a ten dollar bill on the staircase today.

No, it wasn’t free.

It was folded at odd angles and it got in my way.

I stared at it; it wasn’t free.

I picked it up, then, and gave it to you.

Maybe now, then, it can be free?

The note wasn’t green, but a dark shade of blue—

It will never be free.

Now that it’s yours, we’re free to talk,

But don’t talk to me about being free.

Tell me, when the leaves escape from the tree,

And are then trampled into the ground,

Are they really free?

keep it down

You don’t have to be a part of my illusions,
Or play my sick, self-inflicting game.
You don’t need my words, coated with sugar,
And I’m learning fast (it’s all the same).
Not much changes in the Land of the Nice,
Where cold hands are outstretched because
the sidewalks are covered in ice.
Stand Up! The Age of Ice has begun!
Start feeling blue, start shivering all alone,
But try to keep it down.

No one wants to hear you; she won’t want to read you
(And she won’t, because I took my glasses back).
Tell me it's hopeless, tell me it's already gone,
so I can put my mildew heart back in my pack.
It’s her fault & it’s my faults & I’m never right;
Everything has morphed into the beast
that I tried to outrun, in the cocoon of night.
You fool! The Night hasn’t yet begun!
Punch the door, break the wrists that betray you daily,
But please, keep it down.

The birds are scared, the stars’ ears are impaired,
No wonder the moon doesn’t stay in the sky.
No wonder it changes, no wonder it hides
From all of your whining and your midnight cry.
The bells of the tower ring harmoniously in the air,
While kids hold hands behind their backs,
And I just run my fingers through my hair.
Wake Up! The Age of Isolation has begun!
Feel down, kick yourself, you piece of shit.
But really, you need to keep it down.

Look, see how I adorn you with pearls,
Seashells from the coast, and precious stones.
See how I demand what I paid for,
See how I shake to my bones.
I’m handing you these binoculars,
So see the fire I live in, see the forest I run to,
See the ocean I drown in,
And see the dreams where I found you.
Rejoice, Girl! The Illusions have only begun!
Feel warm, know that these words are yours,
But for the love of God, keep it down.

I'd like to go to Europe

This is an old, and my very first, poem in the form of a song.
The song that contains the tune can be found here:

I would like to play with her hair
'cause I miss all her beautiful curls.
Yes, I'd like to play with her hair,
but I don't think she's like other girls.
I could stare into her twinkling eyes for a day
and she'd never believe all the pretty things I say.
Though I wish on the clock, she's still everywhere
so I won't get to play with her hair.

I hope that she remembers me
while flying up high in the skies.
Yes, I hope that she remembers me
'cause I don't think I'm like other guys.
And when I talk to my boy 'bout the wonders of love,
I'll tell him about this girl I knew from above.
And I bet he'll ask "Daddy, why can't she be mommy?"
Son, I doubt that she remembers me.

We could live in a beehive, making honey;
run through the fields, just like a bunny.
Or we could lie on a hillside, the day you come home
but I don't want to lie all alone.

I'd like to see her someday
maybe in London, France or Madrid.
Yes, I'd like to see her someday
'cause I don't think we're like other kids.
I could swim in the ocean 'till my fingers are numb,
and when we're dancing, she can see only one.
And despite all these perfect silly games that we play,
I would like to see her every day.

Yes, I'd like to see her for all my days.

he was Expendable and so it never mattered

In the early months of Spring the ships pulled into the harbor,
and the sea exploded with Men:
Men, who had seen flesh and red, pink and blood—
shot eyes that would follow them, wherever they ended up.
Boys, who had kissed a girl back home, with a hard-
on in their pants, would they ever come back?
The walls of Home were nearby, past miles of broken ocean;
through the stormy mountains that once grew trees.
The Cozy Commander blew his ivory horn,
and from his blimp he threw down the punctured rafts,
Children first— there are no women here —
and then come the Men, the Noble Men.
They thrashed and gurgled and spit up
the salty sea Heroically... kicking,
kicking for freedom, kicking for justice,
paddling their way to the City of Becoming.
A city torn asunder- there could be no Victory,
Berlin would fall, give birth to a Wall,
and the rest of Spring wouldn't be so easy.
But kicked they did.
And in the midst of thousands floating on their hearts,
their sinking hearts,
A Baby kicks triumphantly. He can't walk (he can hardly talk,
for the only word he speaks is "Liebe"),
but he struggles on with the rest, fighting the current,
fighting with all the rest.

But soon they pass the pirate ship,
and the thousand of Seals slip out.
Gliding through the icy water,
with detonators in their oily mouths,
they sail past the flailing recruits, mumbling
"We wish you the best, just like all the rest"
and swim off to put their sealpowder to the test.
The Baby has disappeared,
slipped 'neath the horde of Seals that had suddenly appeared,
and while his creative mind was beginning to thrive,
He was overran by Men,
who were once Young, and once Alive.

Voice that I Heard

Peeking out from under

the mass pile of used blankets

that I've been living under so comfortably,

I saw nothing but wrecked trains and crashed planes.

But the sirens and public warnings were all drowned out

by a voice that built all buildings.

I sat stony-faced on the outskirts of freedom—

hands frozen, nose sunburnt, hair long,

gazing at the Mayan calendar,

wishing the end would already come.

When suddenly it was ripped in half,

by a voice that abolishes all endings.

So I crawled past the door which had kept me

so undeniably alone, so irrefutably deaf,

and followed it all the way past the curb on my street,

and past the leaves I once crumpled in my hand,

lifted me up from my hands and knees

by a voice that heals wounds, fresh and old.

Why should this voice, so high,

want to be a part of this boy, so low.

This Voice that I Heard, I just can't deny,

and that's the only thing that I know.

You are my reason

This is an old one, but I feel it still has relevance:

I can't dance
so I just spin
I don't want to wake the baby
I hope I wake the world.

I can't stop my body from shaking.
It erupts from the inside
I try and supress it just so I can maybe
write stronger.

But before long my hands are shaking. And my fingers
can't lie still.
They shake my world.
Which shakes my light.
Which shakes the bulb.
And there's a flicker of light in the corner of my eye
and my world is full of spots
and little white splotches that don't
disappear when I close my eyes and
they won't stop shaking.

We can't stop shaking and
I can't feel my tongue
because that was scalding, I hope you know.
And I can't taste my lips
because there's nothing there
to taste.
I run my dead tongue over
my teeth and I can just taste everything
I've forced down to help me forget
and wonder.

It makes me wonder how I can still get sleep when it's been
so long since I've felt something.
Tonight I break the surface.

Elephant

Kindergartners stomp on the castles they’ve made,
and the boys kiss the girls on the noses.
I’m remembering all those games we played,
And the trees we planted all around us.
That’s over now, we've reached a glade,
But the elephant in the room is in the way.

I deserve to be tossed into the abyss,
After all, I’m nothing but a squid,
Failing to let go until I get a kiss;
That’s not an issue, since the writer’s prophecy
Will shower down and soak me with bliss,
And the elephant in the room will hide my stupid smile.

Something keeps kissing me in my sleep,
and I can’t say that I’m used to it,
It turns me off— I just don’t want to keep
Having to check whose lips are on mine,
So I suffocate my pillow and slaughter these sheep,
and kiss the elephant in the room goodnight.

A simple little lunch, what might you say?

Trying to start my day right,
I cleaned out my ears and grabbed a small bite,
but there’s no use in smiling without a light,
because nothing can ever start out just right.
The start is full of frostbite,
Burrowed in mud and stuck in hindsight.
So here I am, searching for a moral cause to fight,
For the start is the morning, as well as the night.

I dream simply of midday,
When the rainbow xylophones begin to play,
Inside my head, again and again, until I whisper “Hey—
Mind looking at me for a day?”
That’s the kind of thing one should never say,
Unless they want that smile to fade away,
But all I want is for you and this to stay,
And have a simple little lunch at midday.

The noontime finally comes at last,
While the speech writer’s window has come and past,
His tongue has been injured and wrapped in a cast,
While he writes “How long, then, can the mid-love last?”
That man’s in the past now, he’s tied to the mast,
I’m staying in the mud, whilst the moonlight is cast,
Waiting for this simple little lunch; until then, I fast,
And whisper “How long, then, can the noontime last?”

scribbled secrets (give me back my glasses!)

I'm standing here, on the brink of night and day,
trying to sort out the hundreds of dozen things I wanted to say,
but won't, at least tomorrow.

I'm waking up here, and through the window the sun shines through;
I came to a clearing to find out if it was really you,
but I won't know until tomorrow.

The borderline exists there, but it's several miles away,
will there ever be such a breathless day?
no, you won't be breathing so much tomorrow.

This racing heart begs me to look South,
but my eyes are adverted and it's best to close my mouth,
until maybe tomorrow.

My secrets speak before they are thought,
and I'm twisting my wrists so I'll never get caught,
but you won't read about it tomorrow.

The borderline is a haze in the dirty rain,
and i've bought my tickets for the slow train,
so we can sleep on it, tomorrow.

I wait, how I always wait, but will not fail to thrive,
if the rose bush taught me one thing, it's how to survive;
excuse my thorns, they're only until tomorrow.

And I've had it with this horrific brake,
and whatever's left is yours to take,
so you won't find me braking tomorrow.

The Birth of A Vicious Square

All too often, I get slack for writing poetry, posting it on the internet (Facebook), and then never looking back at it again. I know many other people who do it as well, and they're all my friends. And while hearing fluffy things about your work can make my day and make it easier to write the next one, wouldn't it be nice to hear from someone who isn't your friend that what you've just written belongs in the Recycling Bin? That you shouldn't dare touch a pencil ever again, because what you've written is so outside the reader's expectation of "good" poetry that they never want to read anything you write again? I've never had that. Sure, it's maybe happened, but what good does it do unless I hear what didn't work?

That was one of my goals in creating this blog. To breed an atmosphere in which I could receive the feedback I need to grow as a writer.

In addition to that lofty dream that may never be realized, what I write should be read. Not because of how I feel about it, or because of how anyone feels about it, but because that's what writing was meant to be— read. And not solely by the friends of the writer, because they like me (I think). They don't need my words as much as someone else might. So we'll see what comes of this.

No matter how much I write with my hands, my brain will never stop writing.

And no matter how much I think with my brain, my hands will never stop moving.

Life's a vicious square, and I'm at a corner.

So where do I go from here?