On the Solstice/On the Equinox

Two poems from recently, hand in hand.

On the Solstice


Body on fire, spangles. Light to sequin stars burn out at
both ends. Octupus monocles play an overture on the
ocular pieces of the orbit. To the sky, tourmaline latches
loop around lockets laminated to constellations of child-
ren holding handles. Familiar facets of the concentric
ceilings are centerpieces for the tiny Earth people. To the
sun, not to be eccentrically eclipsed by Luna wondering
lackadaisically on the shore. The perihelion is perfect and
petals of the sequential sun coexist with lucid life forms.
The compass breathes congruency and conjugates. Spin.



On the Equinox


Canopy awakening alive inside the kaleidoscope spitting
images of shapes screaming, changing, willowing, then
combining to simplicity that small children find appealing.
Mankind is like shapes with sides that sublime into the sky,
wanting more than fingertips touching towers that climb.
Always a girl with curly hair hating it but loving progressive
plurals, progressive nouns, a lions den, progressive activity.
The no answer is a new solution to differentials forgetting to
divide the quotient, the quotation, the quasi-momentum inside.
Picturesque elephants proliferating in the desert drinking from
the oasis. An oasis, our oasis that is waiting for the wet season,
waiting for the monsoon to masticate from the heavens. Stop.

Nothing Fictional

Nothing Fictional


I question the motives of Earth people.
I wonder if they know breathing in
atmospheric nitrogen is simply lost in
the biological processes that get put
to using energy, synergy, falling.

The red ribbon untied in a bathroom
smells like a fjord out on the shore,
it is waving in the wind just as a
hurricane flag without a battery.
I need a battery to charge the anions.

Silence is a connection to the home
that only has footsteps of grave-
stones, Gregor, fidelity, and Mona.
If there was ever a place to put an
asterisk you are looking at it baby.

Carrot raised to the ceiling (rooftop)
below the accuracy of being awake
for thirty-eight hours without a solution.
Call on Euler to find me a proof if
he weren’t dead, do me a favor.

Leave the girl on the curbside,
not to freeze but be found by a compliant
line to take her towards a pair of dice.
Leave me with graphite and eloquence,
licking the glass carbon I look out of.

Seasons come in fraternal quadruplets
slapping each other at the differences.
Spring breathes the life and Summer
decides he can load the revolver,
Autumn can change leaves only for

Winter to take every last bit of life.
For Winter to clutch the metal and
become the battery launching
protons towards the sun, towards
the hole in the sky, one with dinosaurs.

Proof of Insomnia

Proof of Insomnia


Fluorescent view through the frustum that just glares
without a luminal idea who cut away its better section
to be part of a better holy society. I was fond of the
gunshot wound since my windows we’re tastefully
dampened by the shorter wavelengths of whatever shines
in the dark. But the bastard window stayed up all night
booze-hounding with the secant lines of the burlesque blinds
still drunk off of last nights moonlight and moonshine.
Flick of the wrist, slap to the prostitute of circadian
rhythms demanding that the cycles stay on intervals
that the pineal gland can understand. All because my
landlord decided to cut off my windows appendages.

V (Months Later)

"Sometimes it is time to revisit things,
Sometimes it is time to ressurect the dead."


V (Months Later)



Why won’t you just
Almost kiss me again?
Why doesn’t the Earth
Just let go of it’s gravity

And let it’s axis fall for
The magnetic field that
Had the reigns all along.
That held the positrons

In your bed, I was in your
Head inside my head, soft.
Plural like winter’s scent,
Unlike the singular tent.

Punctuate, practice on me.
Take the time to take the
Hour glass filled with time.
It is filled with your sand.

Quatrains haunt poems of
Everything that falls away
From things that converge
To my pituitary’s plethora.

Thin whipping into the thick--
Ness of high tide and clay
That I should have just laid
Entrapped in, perfectly plated.

Coincide with the times
Connecting the pieces that
Could collapse your eyes and
Color in the dot of your iris.

The Mesocyclone

The Mesocyclone


The mesocyclone lifts
catacombs you lay beneath.
your skin is pressurized like
porcelain in the atmosphere.

The ceiling embedded with
inhalations deep, then gravity
traveling deeper into countability.
one, two, three, just keep going.

Millibars descending from
the barometer speak like
prophets with biblical names,
they are all quantitative today.

Certainly the keys are fading
from the bombardment of storms
on the shores of countries that
don’t understand her name.

Pen it to the wall in black ink
so that it stains the brick that
these foundations build upon.
don’t look past me or my wind.

Swallow the shards of destruction,
digest the nothingness that can be
the completeness property of us.
carry the exponent to the next digit.

Four to the five, honey dripping
down your spine until it is
copulating with cauda equina.
controlling your convex contours.

The mesocyclone wants more.
it needs more of you and me.
it needs the difference of personality
to perpetuate its utter destruction.





sail as for

Mirror of Hope Patches

Mirror of Hope Patches


Do not let the mirror trick
Your chrysalis into becoming
More practical than its idioms.

In theory, it really should be
Beginning the mortality cycle.
Detritus accumulating on a log.

She could save you,
But it isn’t possible
When the reflections skew.

Think about the guitar
And my blood on the floor.
Truth comes in perfect numbers.

Don’t prolix up a word.
It’s better when the silence
Does all the talking.

The Third Axiom of Chaos

The Third Axiom of Chaos


God is modulo three breathing
Like infinity spilled from a spoon.
Warm autumn, cool autumn, cold
Winter wanting more from the world.
The crooked cookie jar is cracking
Spontaneously, it wants, it bleeds.
But not like bleeding, but instead,
Bleeds like the dark colors onto light.
Bleeds like strangers in the night.
Question every action of every molecule,
There lies an answer in the quantum
Spaces between the quarks and their limits.
Quarks of personality pairs and palates.
Taste the blood of the honey from the
Cumbersome stories of their seasons.
No matter who narrates, in the end,
It always changes but comes back.




n≡God(mod3)

The Second Axiom of Chaos

The Second Axiom of Chaos



Don’t let the ice consume you.

A patent is a platter,
silver with nucleons
around a nucleolus.
Don’t ask the pig why
he is sitting next to you.
Ask him why the day
is a metaphor for the
things that take time.

Let the light be a shadow
at the eclipse and solstice.
Take the transcendental
train to the first place
that feels like chaos.
Set, order, group, subgroup.
Become, become the element
that is crucial to existing and
scream like an ampersand.

Curve around my domain
and murmur lullabies that
resemble the p-wave of my
heart that is palpitating.
Take the dictionary pages
with their alternate definitions
that complete the idioms of
what it means to be subtle.
Take the time to take time.

Question percentages on the
map and why being lost is like
being stuck between a helix and
congruent triangles, similar.
Breathe in the autumn that is
dying to leave its mark on the
leaves that are dying to fall off
the trees that we have grown
to know all too well, familiar.

Cry your tears and tear
the shards off of your wall.
I was never that factorial
repeating on your doorstep,
I was never that finite piece
that you knew would fall
out of its own place.

Innocence is a qualm
that was inbreed into me.
Conservative, sitting still.
Don’t rock my ship baby
because I’ll drop the lifeboat
into the water quicker than
the moon begging to stay
in this sad world’s orbit.

Don’t walk into the fire.




For an amy.

The Elder Tree

The Elder Tree



The diamonds that were the sclera
Of my eyes have melted from the
Unnecessary consumption of hydroxyl.
Down the chute. Eroding the esophagus
Like high heels on a paper dance floor.
The walls are always caving in, but
Tonight they had teeth and wanted to
Taste what sweetness there was to
Liquid carbon. I lodged a broom inbetween
Them and crawled out the fire escape,
But such aerosols decided to follow.

I came up to the eldest tree who had
More inner rings than the man who
Swallowed Saturn. There he stood with
Bark falling off his torso and sap leaking
From his phloem. The Elder Tree I had
Passed every holiday, every birthday was
Struggling to be merely a Christmas decoration
In three months. An addiction to halogens
Had consumed his dollar-bill leaves. The
Dollar-bill leaves he once showed me how
To fold into tiny masterpieces. The ink.

The ink that shed like tears from his eyes.
Ink I once used in a pen to draw pirate ships
In the hours past my bedtime. But the
Halogens and aerosols were always there. On
The parcels of air exiting when you spoke about
My dreams. On your frostbitten branches from
When you thought you were stronger than winter.
On the broken eclipse of grandmother moon.
I knew it was all ending, but the lack of reality
Made me forget about the word soon. Goodbye

Elder Tree. I idealized you as a child but I aged.
I realized why my father hasn’t gotten his mouth
Wet in years. I loved you elder tree. But I don’t
know if I even knew the man beneath the rings and
I’m not quite sure if he even knew that much
About the real me. I’ll take all the blame though.
It was me that let the aerosols and the halogens
Bury you behind the appearance of a shadow that
Belonged in a forest instead of these crowded streets.
Don’t go Elder Tree. I promise to make things
Alright. Just stay awhile longer my Elder Tree.

No New Beginnings

Best Weekend Ever Pt. 12 1/2.


No New Beginnings


Always is worded perfectly.
Describes tunnels, tells
Stories, about why we just
Can’t resist the proverbial
“Cheers ‘til we die.”

Spaces separate all our feet with
Acoustic guitars, how I can’t
Stand rap music unless you’re
Around, unless you all are
Shooting down, all around.

*

No new beginnings, no new
Nautical stars. Nothing new.
But why would you ever mix
Your drink, we’re all going
To break mirrors and have

The best of luck, sparrows.
Sarcasm, somnolence, sing.
Tomorrows can’t hold my
Hand tight enough to make
The clock freeze, I’m always

Going to be frozen right here.
Brown eyes, blue eyes, our eyes.
Inhibitions are the doormat aging,
Maturing dominantly, I just pray
The next two years stay in a state

Of dormancy. Of delicacy. Of
Dying for the plasticity of us.
Goodbyes are the autumnal
Equinox. One perfect, one cutting
The vines that love the past.

Here is to the pastels and the
Population the ground can’t
Help but dismount. Turn down
The bass and start stepping.

Let’s remind him who really
Controls all of mankind.
Until there is no longer
The desire to rewind.
Let’s choke the throat of time.




For,

Leah Athy, Amy Bernardi, Claire Frese, Beca Perrone, Alissa Studnicka,
Chrissy Tucker, Max Mueller, Jack Nickless, Michael Smeraglia, and Christopher Willenborg.

Mona Reads Lisa

Keeping with the theme.


Mona Reads Lisa/


Wine in a box is like
How the wind actually
Feels like it wants

To talk tonight.
Not up the sleeve
Shenanigans, not how

I love to not love
You on odd numbered
Days and perfectly

Capsized catapults.
I like like like to think
About why running into

Walls and off cliffs
Is such a taboo.
Either way I know

That your face will
Appear as exact as
My memory can make

It, in the only reality that
Matters to me. Do you,
Did you, will you

Ever see me as a fractal?
Repeating over and over
Again and again again.

But what does it really
Mean to repeat? Every
Day we walk by.

The same sidewalks make
Love to our feet and I wish
I was any sidewalk making

Love to your feet.
Making love to your
Triangles inside triangles.

*

One line from me.
One line to you.
I won’t ever have

A pen to finish
The shape that
Haunts the three

Dots that sit on my
Paper, papyrus, canvas.
I hug you for a reason.

A Green Foam, A Mop

A Green Foam, A Mop.



A reply, it would be nice
Nice nice night beneath
That whatever China wants.

You won’t respond ever.
I don’t want you
To respond ever.

Take take take it for
Everything that is what
Everything wants.

Sleep directly beneath.
Go outside, come back in.
Devise, demise, deflate.

The taste of toilet paper
Is discrete. Solid solid
Solid like concrete.

I see a shadow in a mirror
A mirror that scares me
That scares scarecrows.

I’m no better than straw.
I wish I was straw and a
Pumpkin carved to your name.

*
Syntax, syllabic, syndicated.
Don’t think about me.
We diluted that thought

Long ago when the sky
Was still a palindrome
A palindrome that resembled

An anagram that nobody
Really knew what it meant.
Goodnight. Goodmorrow.

Taste me. I’m inside wines.
I’m inside your travel maps.
I’m inside your phylogeny.

Alternate Birthstones

A longer one. Four parts. Four seasons (not of any relevance).


Alternate Birthstones

I

I’m not ignorant. I’m not trying
To assume. I just want to see you
Again, just once more so I could
Grasp the text that is buried on
The technology that I wished didn’t
Exist. But we all exist. Technology
Advances and is yearning to exist.
Just swallow the key and say two
And zero isn’t enough for you.

Your voice, your touch is foreign.
Your beauty lives in curls falling
Around your mandible and maybe
That is why I can say I almost love
You, Again, I hate that word after
It has entrapped me twice and amounted
To loving the champagne high.
It’s the only tactile isle I can compile
Amongst the broken text. The memoir,
The solitude, the cut fish, the idea of you.

It is all on the beach, high tide or low.
You are there. Sand particles and bare
Sandals, bare baryons that barricade
Everything, everything that I’ve ever
Wanted more. More than anything
I’ve ever tried to call, on the technology.
On the femur connected to the tibia.
The fibula is the better bone to describe me.
Independent of the world but still acting
As a gravity, the gravity why my feet are
A grounded chyrsoprase.

II

It was sweet, the audacity
That I’m willing to give up
The things I really know true.
Pause, push play, let’s rewind
Once more, once more so I can
Become one with the place we
Once stood, toes to the sky and
Faces towards the stars buried
Beneath the candy-cane heavens.

We walked, oh ever did we walk.
It was what I’ve always wished for.
You, you and me, you ranting about
Life and everything in-between.
The hyphen jealous of parenthesis,
God was recording the moments
So someday down the road I could
Have a replay of what being circular
Actually feels like, the way tapes
Spin around the spindles of our
Childhood.

We stood, we didn’t quite stare,
But we were there, we were candles.
We were sunflowers, we were north.
I knew what was on your mind.
For the first time I guess I was,
I was everything you wanted me to be.
I just apologize it took me this long
To realize your face is like a palindrome.
You are what you’ve always been,
You are exactly what I wanted you to be.
Roads are meant to be mistakes.
Potholes are the reminder of what,
Passed me by three years ago. Three
Years ago when tourmaline meant
The world to me.


III

I stumbled, not because of alcohol but,
Another stood wanting help that I
Will never be able to comprehend.
The ideas of women I can’t try to
Even begin, the beginning, the end.
I get lost with them, triumphs I’m
Not willing accept as ink.
Ink that I perceive as shades of graphite.
Shades of a sky that whispered,
Mumbled, whispered, the guitar that
Had the strings low E, A, D, and how
I wished for only the B and the higher E.

I wasn’t caught in between hydroxyl
Groups and melodies from nineties music.
I asked for Jeremiah to let me slumber.
Lie in my bed, lie somewhere, lie anywhere
Between the hours where light wasn’t
A compromise. It is independence day.
It is a Sunday where the sun was still
Sleeping with poetic pillows. I cannot
Act like I was there for any specific
Condor, any specific firebird.

Everyone I wished for was a fish,
A fish, waiting for a serrated knife.
How the simplicity, a device for,
Just walked away without a closing
Greeting, a night ending with sure
Bottles of a completeness that you
Or me, weren’t ever going to expect.
The hours where learning to love
Is a pufferfish with toxins leaking
From Orion’s belt. The constellations
That I showed to someone else.


IV

The turtle, I’m allergic, the sarcasm
Is a device that was invented in the
Industrial age when life was a necessity.
Today, better yet tonight, better yet this
Morning, is where it would end. I saved
You from the conceptual synthetic rock
Around you finger that reminded me,
That reminded me of amethyst.

Charmed, the electricity fell in
And out, but it was spectacular.
The cycle that represented the life.
Freshman contemplating the conjures
That are the exact imprints of a junior.
I was him, you were her, not that it
Makes a difference. Just like the how
The fish doesn’t understand why it is
Practical, why it has gills to breathe.

We walked, I wasn’t sure if a larger
Slumber was what you seeked.
We walked, and there was a seven.
Iced tea, raspberry, convoluted like
A glomerulus. It all comes to an
End, coffee, the wind, the mystery.
You’re eyes are a tacky topaz.
Birth is a gift and death is nothing.
So everything between us is nothing.

Osteichthyes

Osteichthyes


Let’s cut to the chase, let’s cut
The bareness of what I feel.
I want you to feel, but what.
But what do you and the rest
Of your syllables really mean.

Cut, like the fish on a
Monday morning, entrapped
With the newspaper printings
Of yesterday, but how can yesterday
Be a fragment of what is forgotten?

Cut, like the rhythm that was.
The air, the sarcophagus, the
Taste of distilled water is near.
Dreams are like projectors
Nearing their extinction.

Think, evolution doesn’t lie
In bed with strangers and conversate
On the corner of cutting capelin.
There is always a man wanting
Prepared fish on his palate.

Desolate, cut, the air is dark.
Dark in the way no one can
Describe what the inside of a
Closed refrigerator looks like.
Dark, like how I know.

How I know I notice the
Gap in your bottom incisors
Resemble my discontinuous mind.
The incisors that sound like scissors
That cut the fish, that read newspapers.

Cut, then stems of sea plants leak
The inners of their phloem.
The water, the phytoplankton fish eat,
The kindness aquatic life has to offer
In shapes sufficient to sustain other life.

She holds the hands of mermaids.
Holding hemlock as if her destiny
Walks with Socrates and his coniine,
His coniine that went down smoother
Than salmon during mating season.

Cut, swallow the tablet
Marked with gills and scales.
The distinction that species
Of other fish don’t like to
Associate with other phyla.

Combine, I’ll take your words.
I love your words, and I hate,
I hate using the word love.
Just like fish hate the word love.
Just like fish hate the word cut.

The Darwin Ode

...I can't stop
...Punctuation isn't plausible
...Thank the biological mind


The Darwin Ode


I’m just a face
In the sea of faces
With attributes of xylem
The hydration of phloem
Cast the reel out
Catch an ecosystem
Toss it into your pocket
Watch it grow
Be patient
Evolution is quite slow

Years down the line
I just might adapt
Leaves on a grapevine
To create wine
Have chlorophyll that wraps
Like ivy on your lung’s pleura
Both visceral and parietal
To become a tumultuous trap
Around the heart’s hull

Mimicry seems to cry
With shades too complex
For the fossils to forget.
Evolution has always been
What has brought us to our feet
Carbon date me just to prove
That competition was congealing
Like the fruit of intuition
There are two books that quarrel
And debate constantly
Creationism is an algorithm.

Triumph is the watchtower
Protecting radical ideas seemingly
Too intoxicating to comprehend
Adam’s temptation was similar
To how the wind blows tonight.
Oh, what an adaptation
For the heart to render
For the valves and nodes to beat
Strong, stronger, strongest
Quick, quicker, quickest
It’s just survival of the fittest.

Dodecagon

Dodecagon

...in middle America.


Acute infringements walk
Beside the ideal consequence.
They hold each others’ throats
Because the first to fall must
Be the first to fulfill fantasies.
A goldenrod road is winding
Like the radicand’s reality.
Simple, but sustained all day,
The psychoactive asterisks are
Expanding beyond stapes.
I’m locked in the vestibule
Wondering if worrying will suffice.

Obtuse caricatures illuminate
Hilarities of governors with
A carrot for a nose and a
Unification for autonomy.
Clarify the honeydew running
Down my spine that is paralyzing
My thoracic vertebrae.
Taste the very echoes of sound
Vibrating along practicality.
A second chance for an ability
That has gone way of the gillyfish
Swallowing extinction whole.

Right angle to the sky smiles
At the distance between
The simplicity of existence
And the concentricity of coffins.
My protractor in hand willing
To measure the time-line
That places me somewhere
In the midst of birth and death.
Harmonic sevenths are all relevant
Now that mornings only comes out
When Thursday’s are odd.
Punch the ceiling and exhale.

A Poet, A Raft; Moss is Hell

A Poet, A Raft; Moss is Hell

The title is an anagram baby.

Tonight, I breathed in your scent
And it tasted like pumpkin pie
The days came and then went
You’re still the moon
Held strictly to the sky
And I’m the solar eclipse
Trying to pass you by

Tonight, I saw your rings
And they smelt sexual.
Inviting but nevertheless
It was all just my imagination.
One of my mind’s fantasies.
Where you are the invitation
And I’m misinterpreted notation.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up in Nebraska
At least in spirit knowing that
Everything has but fallen away.
Omaha is awkward in itself
And I now understand why
I always am looking for help
The reason I have empty shelves.

Tomorrow, I will draw parallel lines
On anything that I can
Just to remind me that somethings
Just were never meant to cross.
Perpendicular is the way I wished to walk
With you somewhere around me.
But it is obvious your mind
Washes away like a driveway’s chalk.

One month, It will be the same.
I wasn’t ready for this sort of thing.
I didn’t want any sort of thing.
But the superficial always trumps
What lies on the deeper reality.
I never was looking for love.
I’m just attracted to compatibility.

One month, It will be the same.
It will be in the places I knew so well.
But I know you won’t be around.
Because some things travel out.
Travel faster than the speed of sound.
You are light, I am light.
Just different types.

One year, this will still be around.
The receipt that I have a memory.
I spin like a washing machine’s cycles.
I’m drenched, I’m dry, I’m done.
And I still will never know why
Some people are never quite
What they seem.

One year, came from one month
Which is the offspring of one yesterday
That bred with one today.
One year, came from 365 days
Of wondering around this Earth.
I’m just glad I went in with your hand
And came out my own way.

Too Much

I'm not going to kick you in your shins.


Too Much

Cherry Creek next to the defeated hill
Is where I’d like to say I call home.
Beneath the watering springs
Melting from the nearby everglades.
I’m nowhere near Florida or a southern state.
But I can feel the presence of a girl
Coming out of the cornstalks she lives in.
A slight accent and I think it is all relevant.
The words, the phrases that I might
Willingly be able to compensate tonight.
I can hear a violin in the skyline
Playing a string of notes that is all
Too familiar to my inaudible ears.
My empty cabinets is all I have to offer
As usual, it is the simplicity I complete.
The fragments of sentences that fall
From my half-intelligent lips.
Maybe it will all be sufficient for you.
Maybe it won’t, but the feeling
The moon has leaked onto me is just enough.
Enough for me to feel it absorbing on
The tips of my ten fingers.
Complicated is what the double knots kneed.
I got pictures thumb-tacted to my posters
That already have taken the spaces of white walls.
If I let go of consciousness it would be cliché.
The notion of sleeping to dream is chaotic
Like the spirals along the inners of a seashell.
The way footsteps can’t avoid cracks
On the sidewalks in any American city.
Play it, play the game for spare change.
It is a revolution compelled under latters.
No bad luck here, only payouts greater than
The will of each other could ever imagine.
I tell my mind to shut up and stop thinking
But that is hard when the world is speaking.
I don’t want to listen to advice because
It is not practical or when I actually want it;
Unavailable, Disappear, Conjugate, it is
Sufficient for the time being, for tonight.
Lightning bugs thwarted by thunder.
Electricity distillated by murder.
I’m safe under the covers and you
Have the choice to lie right next to me.
Or run from the dissonance and try again.
Try again tomorrow even though there is
Always a better fitting puzzle piece.

The Wisdom Beach

Looka here sugar.

The Wisdom Beach

Is married to the dumbfounded sky.
I slip away and the sandstorms remain grounded
On the beach we’ve all visited for some hope.
That answers come in the form of waves crashing
Into the shores between the hours of two and four.
I’m new to this world and new to the smell of
Understanding how the world wants me to operate.

I wish I was a saxophone that played octaves
Unknown to simple terrestrial beings with hopes
That someone appreciates the complexities of life.
Stumble, fall, brush me off and the sand is
Always a reminder where we walked tonight.
I know I lie somewhere in between alcohol
And the tobacco I’ll never be able to relate to.

Why must time slip away like our childhood
And everything we wished wouldn’t disappear.
But footsteps aren’t ever going to be magicians.
I’m never going to be something out of the ordinary.
The spellings that were meant to be forgotten.
Connect the dots of the stars like coloring books
We grew up too fast to ever be able to finish.

Still, it all remains, under the beds and in attics.
We all were once young and screamed to be older.
For it was divine to believe that calendars would
Repeat their twelve names often enough to forget our own.
Numbers alternating and, in a sense, obligating
Duties that were out of their control, utterly out
Of the control we believed we once had.
The ability to render the future like a plot-line
In which the pen was in our hands.

Every day is my reminder, the post-it note
That whispers why tomorrow and today are unique.
There is no longer time to reminisce about how
Solidarity can really make a change in this world.
It’s five o’clock and I’ve got nothing better to do
Than realize the sand between my toes is a metaphor.
The reminder that life is something greater than us.
The notion that our memories will someday evaporate
As the years uncontrollably pile on top previous years.
Tomorrow will always be a vague term describing
The things we wished we’re happening tonight.

Scientific Notation

Scientific Notation

From time to time I like to look out
Into the water an see sea urchins
So I can laugh out loud at the idea
That complexity falls upon me and you
I realize it was saved for chiral spirals
All the things that sound like they were
Torn from the thirty fourth page of
My past child’s fictional story book

Instruments fascinate me to the point
Where I’m a single string on a banjo
Being picked and plucked at an upbeat tempo
Thump, da dump, Thud
My heart follows resuscitation
With the slightest bit of hesitation
Music is the puppeteer that keeps
A three-legged chair on its’ feet

God laughs at the children who tell each other
That they look like elephants because they are
Really just hands, clouds penned with some
Ignorant scientific names like nimbostratus
Names insufficient for the power that whisper
Inside of the numbers of manatees that
Hold the throats of the mantissa

Suddenly I feel sorry for the exponents since
Their stories are sure to go straight to waste
Just like the second person or egg white
Me, I would eat either of them if they
Could promise to shed something more than
Pounds or illogical concepts of crowns

Someday, somewhere, somehow, someone
Will be able to get the point across
Although it will be inside a parenthesis
Or have a steric asterisk above it
At the bottom of a poor man’s almanac

All I’ve ever known was useless math
So the equations tell me to take the reciprocal
But what is the reciprocal of hate
That being one over hate,
And don’t you dare tell me love.

Squares and Spoons

Been playing around with this for some time...not sure if its right yet. No introduction or background to what this about for Bob since he is right about telling people what my work is about. It should speak for itself.

Squares and Spoons


Think, think of ways to fill in the squares
That lay on my summer calendar. They are white,
They don’t forget their sunscreen on days where
The weather channel says the UV index is high.
The scorched violet porch is now a breeding ground
For generic electric guitar riffs and wondering
About that guy who played the spoons on his
Knees during every childhood assembly.

Of course we are all trying to live but
Does anybody have squares leaking ink
Into next week’s Tuesday or around
The eleven of tomorrow like a spoon?
That would make me jealous like a Friday
That doesn’t have the thirteenth penned to it.
Even though when was the last time anything
Exciting happened to one of them?

I’m one to believe that these squares leak into
Our slumbers if they remain gray all day.
One in particular struck me like lightning.
Everyone was there that I ever laid eyes upon,
Especially two that I wished I could again.
And there you sat next to me, by some pond,
In some field that had no perpetual meaning to me.
It was natural though, hand in hand, perfect.
Like the two spoons that man played on my head.

Numbers fall and proliferate from the sky
The crescents of partially filled moons
That I dare say resemble wooden spoons.
Meant to mix up the recipe of the unknown
I dabble and taste a hint of your skin
I swallow, and your face follows.
Watch time crawl along a timeline like it should.
Could you be there in twenty years?
Listening to my stories about childhood and
All that doesn’t make too much sound?
Like the lines around the squares abound.

I question why reality always seems real
But never really when we want it to be.
I wait now for the common day’s Edison
To come along and give me something
That can kick me twenty squares into next month.
Now wouldn’t that make the fluorescent lightbulb
Squirm in its socket with jealousy?
The feeling forks get when I try to play
Them to sound like that man’s two spoons.
Or how a triangle was chosen to be an instrument
Rather than the more complicated square.

The Colors From

Well, growing up. We all are doing it. We all are doing it our own way and I'm not sure that I'm ready for it but I guess I have no other choice. That is what this boils down to. I'm sure anyone that reads this can somehow relate to it.

"The Colors From"


A new territory, staggered with bare stones
Tore me apart and I pinned the shards of
Nothingness to my bedroom ceiling
For the mere reason that I need something
To keep me occupied while my mind
Accepts the idea that somnolence is a treaty

Any sentence fragment that starts with the word new
Must bring a fruit basket with fruit flies and
Other insects that bleed blood of loneliness
So the bare white walls soak in an identity
An opaque color from the baroque period
A darker shade of maroon or a better beige

Maybe the sun will melt the newfound colors
Onto my creole skin and take me to a place
That I am slightly more familiar with
That guards gourds of the fall whose shades
Make me feel like this could be a street
That the correct noun to describe it would be home

Pardon my stumbles and extended verbiage
I was never good at relaying foreign feelings
Onto the white pages of the white walls
Who are begging me to tell their stories
The unknown perils that will soon fall
From their eyes as the year ripens their veins

I’ve gathered my canvases from my pasts
Childhood, adolescence, partially subjected
Ideas of adulthood I’m not ready for
They have the colors mixed together
Primary then secondary on the wheel of time’s age

My trembling hand is ready to take the first stroke
On something I’m not quite ready for but
I guess that is what growing up is all about.
I just pray that it becomes the colors you’ve
Always dreamed I would be able to create
From the late night events that drown
Next to the sunlight’s morning crown

Fruit In A Bread Basket

I really don't know what to say about this one besides I don't know if the structure is right yet. I like how it sounds and flows. I just am not sure how it should look to a reader, ie. a block of text, stanzas, paragraphs...

"Fruit In A Bread Basket"

Faith peeled open like a ripe orange tonight.
All in one piece, perfect, it peeled just right.
It leaked expensive perfume of daring women
Who used forged hundred-dollar bills
To satisfy thier hungered fruition.

The scent is just as I had always imagined,
One lodged between a pomegranite and nectarine.
I didn't dare touch it's precious bare skin for
Fear it would fall into ten symmetric pieces and
Force me to choose between such succulent delicacies.

But I wonder about her taste and the punishment
I'd pay to let such beauty go to waste.
Ponder the balance of sheer exploration and sin
As saliva drips from my church of a chin,
Down into the grooves of her spine.

The complex sugar chains of immaculate fruit
Displaced my concept of morals and the prices
I would be willing to pay them with in pain.
Temptation oozed from the aged grapes
As they took my hand and whispered
"We know the things you need to do."
I wouldn't dare to seek things so true
But rather to stare at the orange
Until it turned green and then a lighter blue.

A Plan For the Planets

A poem about everything that has ever intersted me...the unknown, planets, women, and truth. This is a poem that is about alot of things and that is what I love about it. There are alot of things and ideas embedded inside here and if you read close enough you can pick up on them. As always, I hope whoever reads these stupid things enjoys.


"A Plan For the Planets"

The blank page is always white.
A painted starry ceiling tonight,
Called for its children by first
And middle names since it was
Supper time and the time was right.
Dreams walk while dreamers dine
On the tightrope of utterly
Displaced cocaine lines.

The planets are surpressing
Much more than appetite.
Saturn is engaged to Uranus
And they've got the rings to prove it.
Truth and love embodied in ice and
Solidified gases rather than
Expensive gold or diamond.

Yes, yes, they are high
Up high in the ceiling of our
Precious sky laughing at all
The fools tripping at the feet
Of hollow hallucinagenics.
They have discarded the idea
Of offspring already for the
Greater fear some qualified eye
In a telescope would demote
Their child to simple space matter.

Still good they find in making
Jupiter and Neptune jealous
Watching their surrounding orbits.
Orbits trying to find an escape in
Lines of space dust and meteorites.
They're numb for every
Equinox, solestice, and anniversery
For pain in outer space is like
Doing a shot of Mercury.
For pain in outer space was
Always meant to be a planetary story.

Hands

We all go through some unfortunate events in our lifes and today was one of them for me. Someone close to me brother and sister had an unfortunate end to their young life. He had alot going for him and things just didn't end up like they should have. Coming home to my family in tears tore me apart and knowing all of the people it affected hurts even more. RIP Rob.

"Hands"

Stolen away a life was today
At the hands of the lacks of others
And ones that had no fingers
The finalty of decisions is apparent
To the ones that wished they used
Theirs to hold your fragile hand

It is times like these that we
Grab anything tactile and latch
On it for long periods of time
An entry wound like this doesn't
Just leave an unfortunate scar
On the skin but one much deeper
One that cuts to the surface
Of our very own souls

You're gone and I would give
As much as I could to have just
A few words with you yesterday
But yesterday's are no good in
A world full of broken tomorrows

A hand is what I wished I could
Have given to you for just a couple
Of minute minutes
For then today would be brighter
And maybe the sun would peek
Through the dark skies
But that is all too late now

It is all okay though for I know
God grasped onto your frail hand
And lifted you up
So sleep soundly fellow brother
Because we all know you have
Finally found a hand to hold on to
In time I will see you again and
Hold your hand too

A Poem For ...

So I'm done with school for the summer and I write after a couple drinks or two. Soooo this is another poem that I want on here because there isn't a "love" poem on here yet. It probably sucks but that is okay because love poems are suppose to be terrible. This is probably one of my favorites.

"A Poem For Kim Gerazette"

I traveled three stories up
Up the stairs toward
The greater stratosphere
Up the beanstalk high enough
To drip raindrops that condensated
Right beside the jet stream's scream

It just takes those curls and makes
Them a little less like the slides
We let our worries fall down
When we were kids and it makes
Me feel like I should be waiting
At the bottom for you
At the bottom with a pail
To collect the raindrops
Just for you

It is still just a reality waiting
Outside of my windowsill
As the wind tattoos your name
On the most inner portion
Of my most inner thoughts
As the same wind blows
Us inside a seashell that hears
The dreams of infants

Their voices rang inside of
Similiar seashells hoping the
Cries were heard by distant
Sea creatures too accustom
To the lake, that ventured away
I'm by the water shore
Dehydrated and such but
Curly haired girls with a nice touch
Always (in my mind) are
Worth that much

Five fingers we each hold our
Glasses with, the two hands
That God gave us as his gift
We both have eyes that choose
To wander to places that even
Oursleves aren't able to quite find

Again, I'm inside of your eyes
And how I dreamt I could slide
Down everyone of your curls
Just to land somewhere amongst
Your gorgeous curves that transverse
Across my mind but never cease
To remind me of your face
That incomprehensible face
That spells that awkward word
Of perfect in my mind

Anagrams for the shaken will
Do me finer than perfection
So my love, I'll keep dreaming you
But dreams always end abruptly
And hopefully when that happens
It ends up just you and me

Hours, Minutes, Seconds

Well summer is here again and what a better time in the world! This is a poem i just wrote so it hasn't been edited or revised yet but i feel like alot of people i know are going to different places in their lives and this is kinda for them. Growing up kinda sucks but is kinda great in the end...

Hours, Minutes, Seconds

I set sail tonight and God
Told me to call it a circumnavigation
Around something more familiar
Around someone more formadible
Amongst choppy waters that try
To compensate the distances between
Shores and the abstractness of sand

Shake me, shake the table
That holds the hourglass of time
Whispering every memory taken
For granite, for every grain of sand
Wants to always remain
As a piece of last night
For every grain of sand
Is begging to be a piece
Of the soul we take to the grave

But as we grow in age
So does the mass of our beach
That is developing sections
Of it's very own segregation
With bouncers and velvet rope
Childhood, the rocky adolescent,
The ever growing transistion to adulthood

Every year the summer comes
With potential and familiar heat
And the beach grows
Along with our sandy feet

Silicon

I've promised myself i would write a prose poem someday and I guess this kinda counts. It is kinda poking fun at the whole girls gone wild informercials.

Silicon

Why is it that everytime I write a poem that
Girls Gone Wild is on the television? I thought
This was the discovery channel anyways. Good
Thing element number 14 is being put to use
In some form or another these days. Computers
Aren't really that attractive anyway wedged between
Aluminium bats and Phosphorus salts. Maybe I'll
Start digging straight to Mangolia, watch it, China
Is quite overrated these days, just to cease the void
That the concept of boredom has created. I begin to notice
That these girls tops come off faster than the caps of
Beer that we drank tonight. But hey, I still got my check
For $9.99 written and ready to send away tomorrow morning.

Bleach

And another...

Bleach

The street winks at me
Until clouds
Cover the sun
And I see its eyes,
Swollen concrete,
With tears flowing
Into a puddle

With all the coming,
With all the going,
No one notices
How the true beauty
Of parallel and
Perpendicular pavement
Gets washed away

Or how the street
Whispers directions
From symmetric
Black and white signs
And that potholes
Are abrupt reminders
That even the street
Has a time to die

Dueling Quadrilaterals

Soooo my first blog wow! I never thought I would have one of these things but hey why not. This is going to be a thing to get my poetry out there and such. This is a poem I have written recently that I enjoy and is very heavy with geometry and math terms but hey! I am a math major.

Dueling Quadrilaterals

Stained glass of pastel Easter eggs
Metastasize from the ceiling and
It begins to drip an opaque blue
From the trapezoids and parallelograms
That hang above a newly born child
They poke holes in each other
With acute corners
Until tears and concentric circles
Collapse them and lymph
Leaks freely from their
Disfigured, scalene veins
Onto the child’s virgin forehead
In seconds the fragmented quadrilaterals
Scatter on the walkways and aisle
That have become a shattered atmosphere
Polygons, rhombi, a toolbox of geometry
The gift of an unknown mind to venture
From these destructive pieces
Clouds take shape and combine in the sky