Footing Angles and Marrionette Strings

Backwards over frosty eyelids,
i follow your movement closer than microscopes.

I like the way you look down at your feet when you talk.

Timid brows, like caterpillars, hang low over ice capped lashes.
Streams flowing, sideways and slow, down corridors of window panes.
Past glass, past light, past darkening days.
And in the cold i dream of vain, interlocking hearts,
like interlocking fingers,
strangely fitting,
puzzle pieces that were never meant to work so well;
and i am left confused, with seven pieces fitting in all the wrong places,
but so perfectly well.
So why does it work if it wasn't meant to be?


Murmuring soliloquies in bathroom stalls and cheap motels.
Harking the Harold, angels sing, doorsteps, malls, parks with swings.
Capturing the past with memory and lens.

Your gray overcoat muddled into the scenery,
your black beanie the largest visible aspect of a picture, framed and shot through snow and ice.

The browns and oranges of the winter cabin accented with the glow of a fire,
brings enjoyment to it wintry peak;
early morning frost biting at window panes,
over glass, over light, over dissipating darkness;
and your frosted eyes blink, in wonder, in contemplation, in thought.

But more memories have been made;
ones that don't leave the psyche.
Instead they penetrate consciousness and emotion,
changing how we feel towards each other,
for the rest of our lives.

Inside broken down unkempt hearts,
i find comfort.

My continuance to not cause change, but evoke acceptance of the perception i hold of it,
leads to change, growth, destruction, chaos, problems, fears.

The undo-er of good; the bringer of self realization, the onset of existing,
feeling, believing, thinking, choosing, speaking; subjectively.

But i am not choosing sides; whether good or evil.
I am only seeing you by way of brain chemistry and light refractions.
And from where i am,
the reddening of your wind burnt nose makes me run my fingers through my hair nervously, unconsciously.

I will write you love letters,
but only if only you want me to.

Faced Down White

Autumn leaves,
i am found broken
upon the linoleum.
Cold against my cheek,
and my palm,
seeping through the skin over my fibula.
And the water is running from the drain.

And my mind is running towards the dark.
And my eyes are running towards the light.
And the only thing not running is me.

Glued to existence,
consciousness is not easily escaped.

Hammer Heads and Screw Drivers

I feel a sense of abandonment, but i cannot find its source.
and i feel a sense of hatred, though that one i possibly understand.

Lost in my muddy thoughts and my nausea,
i feel as if i will never make it back to the surface of normality,
back to who i so certainly was,
who i so loved being;
the suit of skin i wore and felt so indestructible in.

i was walking through a forest of seaweed,
breathing water, breathing sand,
i was watching the sky move in a time lapse of beauty,
where the extensive amount of stars created a glow in the sky;
that of the horizon in the midday sun,
with an extra large moon hanging low and lucid.
everything was gigantic and proportionate.

Presently, I'm scrounging through trash cans
looking for scraps to live off of;
those little chunks of thought,
those moldy remnants of emotion,
the old perceptions I've learned to memorize for times like this;

i need time to see this through;
i need to crawl down this muddy wet tunnel once again;
face my demons,
fight them with sword or dagger;
ward them off with tongue or cogitation.
My own war,
my personal battle.

In time i will win,
with age i will prevail
this process will become antiquated;
thick dust that floats atop the streets.

For today,
i need to question myself,
for now,
i may just need to be left alone.

but intermittently, will you sit with me?
a shoulder to rest upon,
a hand to clutch.
A weekly intermission from my self focused dreams.

The moonlight through my window

he's crying again.
or singing.
and this time he's lying down.
i would fashion a pillow for him,
to rest his tired orb on,
but i wouldn't know who to address it too.

The Moon
Earth's Gravitational Field,
Solar System 34559b, Milkyway Galaxy 12958

the note inside the box,
underneath the pillow,
would read
"I thought you might be tired, so I fashioned this pillow for you.
I thought you might be allergic to down feathers,
so i filled it with all the love i could fathom.
I apologize ahead of time if it is not comfortable,
or if it is not enough.
i just want you to be happy.
Love,
little me. "

and after the pillow is sent to him,
i'll curl up on my bed,
pretending to believe myself,
whispering "you can make more love,
you have it in you"
and knowing that i'm spent.

tired, alone, cold,
the moonlight will wash my windows,
bathing me and my bed in light,
pretending to believe himself,
he will whisper "you can make more love,
you have it in you"
and together
we will know
i am spent.

Blades of Grass

My hands smelll like blueberry bagels.
I can hear a baby crying somewhere close by,
and a trashcan lid,
opening,
closing.

Mid afternoon; the Winter sun is setting,
the crows are on the hunt,
and the wind blows the steam off the top of my coffee.

The barren branches of the elms and birches
hold homes and hearts,
as the patchy sky is whisped with clouds as soft as feathers.

The dry air wraps its spidery arms around me,
drawing me into its deadly web.
Cocooned in hats, sweaters, scarves, and boots,
my warmpth is slowly sucked from my bones.

The clouds collect,
folding like dough,
from feathers into wings,
or a sea turtles shell

swimming high above the earth
with birds and planes alike.

And despondently,
i watch them fade into gossamer,
like blades of grass in the Spring.

Dark Green Pine Trees

i have an affinity for my scissors.
but i have lost them over the course of many unlikely situations

and now i am searching for them in my desk,
feeling sad, and hopeful,
but knowing in the end, they are gone for good.

but they could never cut
desire away from my mind
nor desolation away from my soul.
so what substance do they hold over
the preponderance of unintelligible concepts
housed on the same shelves of thought
sustained in a hippocampus i call my own.