she wrings the morning
from her paint soaked dress, dreaming
dragonflies hover
becoming sunlight dancing
vast, her fields of flowers bloom

Most find the crash to be a nuisance
Not me.
I find an unusual serenity in the calamity.
An undeniable calm in the chaos.

As for the flash
Well it adds a little mystery
To the life I live full of misery.

Rain runs down windows
Replicating the tears down my face.
Reminding me I'm not alone
In this desolate place.

Thunderstorms are therapy
Designed to drown out our thoughts
And provide inspiration
For artistic creations

The night holds secrets of hidden longing
Flamed circling desire til the break of day
Agony of conscious denial whispering
Wordless tales of thoughts coming to play

Depth bearing are the quicksands of lust
Arcadian sinking of silenced urges
Yearning of ferocious recurrent thrusts
Quick wave of desire submerges

Trembling, aching fingers, dried lips
Sentient drift with every passion
Hand craving the tender capture of hips
Fossilized moment of flowing emotion

Yet a barren field of frozen reflection
Forbidden path we like to borrow
Sweet devilish temptation
Filled with ecstacy but sorrow...

Where is my thunder?
It isn't under the bed
nor under my scalp.

a text to solitude-
    I send- over an  internet  un-wired
for a life I no longer
    can survive,

But survival is hard-wired
   within, it is why
my hands need to stay busy
   being

creating a floor or rebuild a vanity,
   make one real dollar.
peace, from what I truly need
   like human touch.

It follows, that I like
   the muscles I build doing real things,
between my ears seem to be
fulfilled
   when i create and build

just one dollar in reality.

It is not a competition;
but if this were the Olympic games
of wrecked relationships,
I would have the gold medal
while you sit in the stands

Am I selfish for wishing you
would learn to tether yourself to me instead?

If waves were miles and each break an hour,
we could pretend to know math and call it
science, based on sands that have pulled us closer
and this collision of horizon I childishly wish
would be you and I.


I promise to keep you together
much better than she ever did--

- To not be broken about it,
and to teach you that making someone
love you
isn't your "fault".

I can smell the cigarettes.
I haven't smoked in days
But I can smell the cigarettes
in between your legs.

I can taste the coke cut up,
running down my throat.
I can smell the cigarettes,
even with no smoke.


I can see an image of
a woman lying bare
I can see the ink she's buried
underneath her hair

***** becomes public when
we let ourselves believe
that smoking isn't bad for you.
that you will never leave.

if I could capture
you
and me
if I could capture
what
you see
if I could capture
the
capturing

I'd capture-keep,
the
long legs/
black hair/
smoke suspended in the air

a cat with whiskers wiser than/
the man who's broken eggs again

the shells that feed the mystery
because WHO THE **** COOKS EGGS AT MIDNIGHT
and I swear to god if one more person looks at me seductively
I'll rip apart the
leather jackets
jean vests
studded flannels
studded chests

because life just never seems as good/
as retrospectively.

as looking back on someone else's/
frozen memories.

and the worst-best part of everything
is when it seems so real,
that you could become one of them
if only you could feel.