To Travel

The damp night can mask your body but your skin still glows,

suppose the twitches and kicks as you sleep are your constant fight,

despite my slumber I can feel your soul in the palm of my hand,

your naval gland stores immense creativity,

it's leaking,

vim euphoria as the land cycles at your feet,

steep mountains and lost valleys fill your empty pallet,

impasto islands with your existence and steal their ways,

and the less baggage means you'll likely not stay.

don't have to say anything,

since your stare tells me all I need to know.

Reality

I’ve attempted to line my thoughts like dominos,

eachcollidesontoptheotherwithgentleforce

Lie on my lap and let me plug into your dreams,

streaminghuesasbrightasdiamondswithwarmthlikethesun

You massage my palm with your lips whispering

coherentattachmenttothesecondsourpathsverged

Purge me of my wandering stasis and guide me

Intotheworldlytopographythatwillmimicourconjunctsteps

What For

I look at you and can’t place you name.

An error of judgment has made that primrose smile wither.

I can see those fangs still growing.

An annotated preface couldn’t define it.

You speak with voracity, yet it yields no resolve.

The jaded signals flare like windows in the sky.

You collect bodies with guile, yet it heals no pain.

The new dirt will only verdure for a while.

You’ll peek over your shoulder and rile.

Under A New Sun

Pop in the hands clung together

whether it be hers or mine it’s irrelevant

elegant fictive follies frisking our spindles and a submerged

surge of lanky trees plea to be that lush green newborn like before

or at least brush the sky bright as an atomic blast blinding

and billowing malleable creatures and dreams dancing daringly

among the atmospheres’ stage.

It casts a daunting penumbra under those umber eyes

prizes seem dull and otiose crumbling in my palm

calmly building a ship to search for the missing verbs

birds slide and cut while the moon croons me to sleep

not a peep from home probably gaged by the surmounting time

whining and shivering on top the purple velvet mirage.

Wharfs welcome strangers with jeers and applause

I pause surrounded by peeks seeking a piece of agreeable truth

or proof that this world’s glimmer is as sharp as its bite

fighting to keep my words from falling off the page

stages of anxiety drowned by bibulous guffaws

saw the friendly phrases massage my mind

and prosperous nubile identities wishing me to find

them under a new Sun.

Cold Interstellar End

I want to close my eyes,

but the battle rages in that blue orb,

fists descend on the weak and helpless,

ethereal possessions switch hands meekly,

I peek into the venal cities manufacturing pain,

their eternal cupidity chokes them to the ground,

wharfs burn and so do dreams of that endless sky,

some hide and listen for the warble of the poets speaking of renewal,

propitious is our clinging for peace,

so I lift myself from my celestial throne

and garnish the thousand-year pen,

proliferate the energy of the stars to those who will it,

burning in the souls like Prometheus's flame,

I'll float and croon to perhaps swoon the rage to slumber,

allowing the world to finally rest.

Everything

I laugh at it sometimes,
the heavy guilt life latches on my shoulders,
the prying eyes spying on my movements for signs,
the itching feeling of doubt rubbing my forehead,
the reflection gawking back at me like a shadow,
the immense pressure dotting my chest,
the angelic tones of old birds chirping in each ear,
the virgin breeze stirring me awake,
I laugh at it sometimes,
but these day's never seem to laugh back.