Call Me Whimsical, I Can Sleep Tonight (December 18/19, 2009)

Chaos Theory is complete (if you want a copy I'm thinking about doing a second printing of it so let me know, if demands there, I'll do it). Go! is dead, well not so much dead but has taken on a different form. This piece will fall into a collection entitled "Box of Bones" but I don't feel like making a new blog for it.


Call Me Whimsical, I Can Sleep Tonight (December 18/19, 2009)


I can still smell the particles of your hair
as I dash back towards my hometown
fountain. It will be a story, to someone,
that at some point, someone chased you.

Is there anything out there that feels
like clay to a child meshing materials?
Is there anyone out there that makes
the city’s wind collide two worlds?

I’ve met them, all, complete, contact.
Searching for clichéd emptiness at the
bottom of their ventricles, not broken
bottles or half sipped distilled spirits.

This sunrise is different, later, darker,
not how we’ll sleep until two, but in light,
light that scatters out from stars, galaxies,
and your nebula the takes the nautical form.

We banged on drums as authority watched,
noticed, and knew that we had power.
What a concept, what a shimmering piece
of plastic that says we chose to be right there,
alone.

My bed is empty. My atria wishes for something more,
but we both know a figure just to be a figure is frugal,
is frustration in the form of quantum energy, more physics,
molecules, atoms, quarks, strange but ever so charming.

Don’t vanish please,
there is a cycle to complete.
Blooming, blossoming, carnivorous in nature.
If I only could connect
the cracks in the pavement.

If I only could know the difference
between short skirts and opaqueness,
Your dirty smile would
be a dirty pile of clothes.