Bio-phobia

Biology is a beautiful spectacle 
Beautiful, but tyrannical
Brutal by any measurement
Breaking, constantly, and re-arranging Itself, bit-by-bit, spiraling towards Infinity where it meets death
Partially or fully,
Where I wonder why we're still going
Or whether what's gone
Is worse than what's still living,
The fear of loss and of existing
Dialectically breathing dust into awareness.
Soft, shifting dust
Puzzled out perpetually into pieces
So nothing stays complete.
Not brains nor bodies,
As nature clamours to dig deep
And pull us through this twister
Whether or not we comprehend.

Cup of Midnight

There's a bitter black tea 

At my favorite cafe,

Wormwood black, like a poisonous

Dark chocolate,

That I like to guzzle on a

Wet, windy day;

So perfectly perverse, so warm and

Tingley to my pallette.

When October turns cold and my

Temper turns brittle,

Solace seems as off as the

Sweetness of Spring.

Shedding the skin of a

Wiltering flower,

The crow and the raven within me

Must sing.

Like showers of kisses, with hints of

Smoke and ripe cherries,

And passions pulling thick as wads

Of black licorice,

I'll fall, diving down with you

Into dust,

And die in the moment to make

Everything perfect.

Softer, Deeper,

As beautiful as it is to cry,
It cuts so softly so much deeper
Since I gave up faking
And started listening to your whisper

Its smoother going down
But gets me so much faster now,
Those feelings that I'd missed
And that I pretended missed me somehow





Secret Room

Clear your muddled, cluttered head

And have a slice of honeyed bread

To take into your secret room

Where your tea is hot and your flowers bloom.

There, you’ll think and have a smoke,

Text a friend with a random joke,

Watch the birds and people go by

From the window on the other side,

Start the first lines of a poem,

And just feel fully alive and alone.

We Could Grow Our Own Life Together

We could have a tiny world, a modest one, all to us,

To paint our ideals, our passions, and secret wishes onto.

Caring for each other and nurturing the land

Our children, a family of colors, scents, atmosphere and earth.

We’d till and sow all our own way,

And grow a living dream, transcendent from every angle.

We’ll compose a landscape tuned to the mood of our time together,

Like living music to the moment we’ve adopted.

Seasons and years renew the youth of our creation,

So every day we enjoy new spaces of imagination to occupy together.

This is the world we birth with our own hands and thoughts,

Held together indefinitely, in reverie and splendor.

Heroes Burning

Scars make martyrs and monsters.

Idolizing the villains who were yesterday’s anti-heroes

Waiting for them to burn their capacity to create.

The angels burn brightly, softly, sensationally,

To follow chaotically into a second fall.

Exactly as dulcetly as they first sang,

They clash crassly against some new foe,

But the only ones standing in their way

Are the ones burning as brightly as they.

Radient Ideation

Allow me to indulge my radient ideation,

A spectacle of bittersweet sunbeams breaking through gray skies,

Eeking their way into my ugliest days

Like transcended smiles projected from the purest celestial lights.

They reach me bedecked in wilting blue flowers,

Exposed to the heavens in a gown of silk white,

Seduced into a dream that lasts for an eternity

Between the fragility of a body and the soft sting of twilight.

It’s wearying to be deranged for the sake of beautiful things,

And as they dull, to come to know, that madness still remains.

A song I knew grew up to be a different kind of tune,

It plays the notes that made me up and broke away from me.

Intoning prose for my own health prolongs the point of breaking,

And sharing them from mind to mind is life that’s worth the saving,

To make a scene of who I’ve been to stimulate your feelings

Is all I need to brighten up this dream I can’t stop dreaming.

Burn me with the autumn leaves, with cardamom and honey,

Leave a house to my mother on the shores of a lake that’s crystal clear and foggy.

Find me there in ashes, free from poverty and wealth,

Dead to all the world, but not dead to herself.

A Touch In Bad Weather

Some people can’t be reached no matter what you say,

Who probably wouldn’t care to feel your touch anyway,

And for all those who need, in some way, to be reached,

Our fingers might wave but they rarely ever meet.

In a dark windy heart there’s cracked glass in the rain,

Palms still untouched can be cut all the same.

Quieting the air with a gesture, I find

It helps, when you reach, to shield your hands with mine.

Those stinging cold moments with warmth underneath

Pour lakes into places overridden with dead leaves,

An Autumn-stained blush from a spring-tinted gaze

Briefly turn skies that were black back to grey.