Thursday, August 15, 2013

Empirical Data

I talked shit to get into your body, but, in all
truth, I had only the desire to get inside
your brain. The grape water revelations, however, stole
such inclinations and wrapped me in pedestrian
sobbing. I long not for our union of flesh, but for
more exploration of your landscape of thought. My skin sullied and freckled
from casual enticements means not. But an evening with your neurobiology has
certainly daunted. And Schrödinger's cat still means nothing
without the desire to open the door. I get it, I do. Please, just don't think my hunger
for your mind was the same as simple foot prints, as I have no interest
to tread. You are. And you do that perfectly.

...even if all things become fodder. They were once the
empirical data from which the architecture of mind cannot contend.

It's only 3 years. Mother, I get it. Instincts and hormones. Yet,
your grace carries much.

You, Grace,

I, wither.


Fuck you, blank page. I spit on your cleanliness with
these messy scribbles. I have no respect for
silence when so much longs to be spoken. Your serenity a
lie; absence not a peace. Your existence dares me – and far too
often I balk. You dominate me. You intimidate me. The choice you
present befuddles and taunts me. I run. Day and day again, I refuse
to walk my pen across this cloud and give purpose to sun’s
thatching light. My fist slides into muddy evolution – runny egg
afterbirth dripping through thin finger tickles. Deeper, resides

art, but alas my elbows are shallow.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Cashed Out

I kiss myself on the bicep as I sit
listening to songs that sound of your 
smile. Admittedly, I don't know who 
you are, but like god I hold out hope that you
exist. Both do not. Still, it's nice to grab
onto a ledge while drifting down - even if that ledge
only resides in my mind, with eyes closed dreaming 
all the dreams that one can dream before the pavement
steals them away. My future is not you. My future is not
god. My future is that of a distant residue on a sidewalk
that might be mistaken for a bloody nose, spilled Slush, or
a painful defecation. All would be somewhat true and you'll 
walk right over me never having known about how I liked
to kiss my own bicep knowing that one day you'd grind your 
heel into me with all the affection of a single, hurried