Conrete Coffin

A flash as abrupt as a pinch.
Eyes dazed while shimmering darkness
rolls like a carpet at your feet.
Clouds rumble and tumble up top
the vertical skyscrapers as the windows
angrily shout bolts of light.

Drops perspire like a showerhead
arranged under dangerous horizons.
Bridges weep and shake
cries from the sky make you shiver
and the coat only protects you from the exterior.

“This city will teach ya a thing or two, or kill you…which ever comes first.”

Shadows surround you like a cape
and the tires squeal louder than your mind.

Take a turn down that alley you feared all your life
as friends who you have forgotten watch from the fire-escape
not lifting a finger as the walls
mend the impenetrable coffin
you despise.

Lost Words.

Find them, find them!
In the thickets and in-between vines,
intertwined hair dug like a burial ground.

Find them, find them!
Holding heaven up with rustic branches of our brothers,
white leaves whipping the blanketing crimson grass.

I see them, I see them!
Hiding hymns, hanging from their tails, horrid stench hails onto
cracked backs arched below the reefs dangling briefly
at the length of mountains.

We see them, we see them!
Having lemonade together, in crystal wine glasses, all dressed
in suits and skirts that are pressed to the skin so deeply
their bodies becomes meshed from the design.

They see us, they see us!
Smiling warmly as the omniscient spotlight
igniting the background with blinding rays
like an exploding supernova
a fire squad shooting each piece of life
so space wont be so alone anymore.

Why he makes her cry: why she doesn't exist

Because of the passion in his eyes from the war fought along side crowded masses, swaying and crashing like tides hammering unguarded shores.

Her image distorts the true essence beneath the paper machete bangs that glide effortlessly, vaingloriously, truly sculpted like Van Gogh nose.

Because It’s strangling the neck, causing blood to be locked into the brain where all surgeons diagnosis hidden tumors burrowing under mounds of so-called love.

Her voice conjures angels with full body armor, vigorous, rigid mountain peeks crumble beneath her words that flow together like woven yarn, building warmth.

Because the heights are causing his heart to jump over the edge hoping the life-support parachute will deject at the very moment reality decides to awaken again.

Her lips are parted just enough to witness their lustful fullness, an aura as robust as the suns first rise on earth, but the night before is still tattooed on her back.

Because he can’t speak her language right, stirred by the very notion of her eyes, those endless hallways that always lead to the one door that won’t budge.

Her smile is brief, just a soft disturbance that halts his breathe, closing his throat so suddenly that it is like choking, choking on his own heart.

Because he rejects everything that creates her before she was born, washing away the pastel leftovers from his finger tips, soap and water, faking a nod so the blood will clear.

Her witty exchange offers closure, “We all want affection, we all want what ever love is,” she whispers, stepping into the only car left on earth.

Because he hates himself, hates himself enough to not search the last aisle for what’s left.
“It will all go away, but you were never there…”

Anxiety

It devours the mind like a savage shark ripping to shreds all
tiny hopes that coincide with life.

It colors paintings with obscure references to scriptures
that five-year olds' read.

It punches and burns wounds breached by tireless efforts
wasting away in the corners of adolescent
charades.

It’s never occurring twice in a row since it knows that
effect will wear thin like paint
that chips after specks of
hail punctures it.

It’s always there,
a birth mark,
but in the right light,
it doesn’t resemble
shame.

Longitude/Latitude

1.
Hands interwoven
sunrises collapse into broken globes of violet,
jocular fairies twinkle above the thought-bubbles,
hammering details of travel.

2.
It is the dress that distracts the eyes, woozy,
confused by the zigzags leading to a dead-end,
mouths closed by laced remorse,
off course cause’ the kettle isn’t ready yet.

3.
Like a birds nest nestled between a highway and a shore.
Rummaged pieces of cardboard and love letters,
reading fifty poems out-loud until the dam breaks.
Takes two for a dance to work,
twist, three, turn, four,
allure, bating tremors,
skin smooth as wine,
a toast to thy
life.

4.
Peppered salt on wheels,
treading honestly
like hooves of the knight riders,
wide-eyed
like Mason & Dixon posting lines across the land
through star-gazing
and hazy atmospheres.

5.
Hymns sound more like screams,
hands pressed to the palm
for a solemn equal prayer
of jangled cataracts dug within the metal corridor.
Alive, proved by breath,
a hive buzzing with demons
ready to signal poison death for global sloth.
It rings thrice upon the tone
own insult results in uncanny litter
brittle knuckles beat each other
red and bruised
then lips part
and kiss for a thousand years.
6.
Seven dreams are saw simultaneously
each with a meaning and a different girl
but if only to remember the heartaches in their eyes
and singing absolutely about nothing in particular
remaining a mere message on a voicemail
press seven to delete
press seven to delete
and it retains the water billowing from the ears
filling twenty glasses with her favorite liquor
she loved to drink on days where the cuts grew
dark and silent like a crow cawing in the haze
she liked those days when the smallest piece of filth
remained a assassin for a vigorous metaphorical phrase.

7.
Unlucky cracks and ladders line up with no four-leaf
year that remembers hostile urchins pickling the bottom of
cars racing on I-55 forever in a
gavel pounces the asphalt while
summer pierces memories of long walks
on lakes that hide beneath looming skyscrapers if
the days and nights blur like “starry night” pastels
leaving colored marks on body parts rolling
hands on themselves gripping tightly on
seasons whooshing and chiming on cloaks of
Venus roses given in a bundle to represent the
other times coming and going
like a avalanche collapsing on everyday
until the last note C minor rings
More true then the words that
whisper from the shore.