curls-and-yelling

Your heart beat is whispering where it originated, deep in the green that throws itself against the blue sky and I was lucky, I got to pluck you from the tops of the trees and bring you home where we just laugh together the way the forest meant for us to. We’re still awake when the sun comes up and the birds are singing when I look at you and somehow I am shocked again by how beautiful this planet is, as somehow she made you

The more I age, I am confronted with all that I do not know and the many more things that I do not understand You are one of them. I find you in the blinking cursor on the screen, begging me to create something that will never exist. I see you in the indigo sky, uninterrupted by invisible stars, an inky darkness that pushes me back inside. You are here in the broken recesses of my tattered mind, escaping when I reach for you, elusive. I long to know you but I fear I never will, (I worry this is how I’m always gonna feel.) But I’ll chip away at my reflection until I find you.

I have become gray. I have nothing left inside me. I am empty and extinguished, a former wildfire that has faded to barely glowing embers. and I can’t find myself because I am simply nowhere.

I am not. I was, and now I dream of being what I once was or will be again, but as dust settles on the remnants of my mind, and rust consumes my magazine eyes, I am lost in a reverie of my former glory until I fade into Nothing and No One.

I found where the raindrops go when they sink into the ground, wandering far from home deep beneath the broken asphalt of the highway above my head The sound of their drops echoed from the cave walls; the music they made below the earth sunk deep into my soul, and there I found where I was supposed to be She smiled when I found her, and sang along to the sound of the raindrops trailing along the cave wall. And when her voice danced into my mind, the rain fell silent and I realized she was singing with the birds.

I'm choking on your carbon dioxide and loving every second, falling deeper with every groan of your ceiling fan Your slender, knowing hands playing tricks as you twitch further away from me, still holding my bleeding heart still here And I breathe you in as your flower-scented pixie sleeping breaths dance love notes across my ever-awake eyes It's dark but I'm loving staying up, trying to sleep next to you in the tangle of blankets on your- mine, we, our bed tonight

I am a poet and all I do is write about how things are like other things. Then you fill my mind and all I want is to write about you, but you, love, are unlike anything I've experienced, so Words. Escape. Me.

I see the stars when I think of your kiss, lighting up the darkness in your backyard and in my mind I think of fire when I see your eyes, leaving burning lines behind your fingertips whispering across my skin And the roses you sent me remind me of your voice, the fragrance of your cadence softening the air, your thorns drawing my blood And, love, you are in every drop of earth surrounding me but when I open my eyes and stop remembering you, I can't find you anywhere.

Tar steam swept, stream left into sane star peeling sun burst into brackets and tactless tactile regret of unfocused fingers and frets wailing on the neck; bleeding blue bruises fused to fatherless muses glued to a sleek new repudiated truth: that you are only youth wasted on a baseless brainstem. waving chem lights in nightsweats chasing liquor with quicker ways of working up a haze in the mind of the mindless, you run timeless still, having wept the kind of cautionless fire that feels around with a tongue forked and feathered, silver slivers streaking your cheeks like a river of runoff emotions. And the erosion has left lines rooted in

asking for perfection, the holes in my skin feel like pitfalls, the exits to my uncertain entrances, and trying to put words to my exposition is shaking loose the dictionary, sold to metaphors and breathless lungs, I've felt the burn of cancers on my mind, and she is there, a demigod born of my demise, spinning round, the sinecures belie my wishes, ripping pages out and blackening them, we all say "this is poetry", but it's not worth understanding.

gaze up at sky drooping, syrup stars leaky in damp pools of light. salvador, won’t you paint me another? weary eyes same, cascading down skinny wax-me jaunty and desperate infatuated, maybe I am, but there are worse things to be than lies on a canvas or the liars that told them, still hold them dearly. nearly never can I clearly see what carvings at the center you left in calligraphy.

I struggle with a wartime dry landscape in a photo sleeve,  magazines empty    walking into nuclear sunset eyes thrown along the interstate mess of our existence, mass of wreckage   hidden with weeds grown past our wastes I struggle to remember this is now not far away, not kept in someone’s un-   imaginable closet framed like two silhouettes against   stucco; with living in the future

hard to stay outside when the winter winds blow across this desert-ed town, algorithmic, and indicative of our decline, argumentative and covered in your moral fibers - insisting that the flame still burns, says the same things that it ever did while blocking out the light; not a beacon for the beaten, a sign on her side saying "you must be this tall                         to ride"

Has Cupid ever fallen in love? Saw you from across the sky and dived, impaled himself on his own arrow at your feet and prayed for the libation of your kiss? Did he give you his wings, tied them to the faintest of hellos and wished for flight; did he cuff the moon to your wrists and spill the stars over your lips in that first confession of something close to love? Because Cupid could give you everything soaked in sentiment: clouds of swan down, an ocean of white silk, he could have plucked the rings from Saturn’s axis and slipped them on your fingers if he ever fell in love with you. It isn’t difficult to fall in lov