"Bridged Borders"
Birds make home in an alley vestige.
Recommended for you
Crumpled butts,
literal shit discussed and discarded.
Spider web branch shadows
shape the pavement.
Sit still, you, breaking grains.
Breathing.
Budding.
Feet smiling.
e-v-e-r-y
c-r-i-n-k-l-e
Fresh pizza placed on the ground,
dirt makes it taste like home,
from where we've grown.
Play in the mud with the rest of us.
Wandering the floorboards,
asking us to fall asleep.
Disciplined states,
lasting moments brushed away.
Containing explosions,
as long as nobody knows.
Ballooned enclosures.
Suction.
Section.
Stable.
Filling holes, pulling enclosures.
Shrewd observations isolate.
I've never been here before.
Old joints live as a thing of the past,
peeling pages,
sitting levers.
"Knowing Better"
Smells of 'Forest Fresh' and week-old cigarettes,
she holds a new sceptre
infecting her scarf.
I can tell already,
this will never work,
while forcing us to function.
Spotted celery stalks
buckled in the back seat.
Moments turn to miles,
as they seem with Jeff Buckley.
This is not a moment of hallelujah.
This is about me never coming to you.
I've fixed the cockpit to fit my legs
and learn you're not too bright.
Your lumbar vertebrae are entirely over-supported.
We pump gas together
because you've never done it
and claim the cost isn't worth a thing.
I shouldn't pay a penny for your thoughts,
but wish I could.
"Stuck"
Harsh and winding, whipping winds
expel their lungs upon weathered crows feet.
Bellow in your beckon, crying yet whining,
this whistling whisp of frozen lace,
continually lingers on my rosen face.
Running ragged and wrinkled fingerprints
over a ripple of years,
wrapped in a freshly cut stump.
This splintering winter has a willing embrace.
As (it) extends frigidly frail arms to enfold
your warmth:
Manifestations of involuntary precipitation
exit into orbit,
from the entrance of optical information.
There is something humble about the
scent of snow. So docile and subtle.
After all,
the world can be quiet,
as the past is revealed
in the path of fortunate feet.
"Excuse Me..."
They say, "Time heals all wounds,"
but I've stared at clocks long enough
to know that's not necessarily true.
Lucky for me, "Chicks dig scars,"
Unfortunately, they aren't the emotional ones.
A clock hangs as a beautifully grotesque creature.
Mounted as if it had been selected in a hunt.
So effortlessly stable, while always fleeting.
It tells you both how much you have,
and how much you have left,
So consistently inconsistent.
Staring at the present
just to let you know (that) you're missing it.
Pondering and wishing and wanting.
It's aggressive with it's grubby mitts.
Forcing selfishness and greed.
"I don't have time for this."
"Fuzz"
Fuzz.
The left behind.
Worse than waste,
compiled in taste.
The left behind.
Dust,
the droppings of,
the just because
that you've left behind
the fuss.
I see you too,
these colors brew
in receiving lines.
+
Parade.
Within your chest,
behind your vest.
Dictate,
encapsulate,
with your intake
the way you make your mess
left behind.
