A Man (Swearing)

Fuck, the further I search for an escape from the hold, (your hold) the further I fall from my pleasant grace -away from those memories I have so secretly stored inside my anchored chest. Like an envelope of rain, unfolding creases of your writing on every interior page. Their color shone like speckles on every baked good you created, and all the ones I never ate. A feeling never embraced, a hate so full of hate, and though, not directly aimed at the person who is, dangled like draping beads upon the shoulders of your skin -touch, and taste, and everything in between. I have tired from ignoring the iron barred cage of our years. We were lions. And we're lions again. Shamelessly pacing our prey. Another lover, another soul to consume. I sicken from these inescapable thoughts of you. Housed a traitor, (the you) inside your room. I'm sure he asked every question, an inquiry for every feature, bland and unbreakable. (((You firefly, feathered boat without oars.)))

Those unresponsive messages carried the weight of an elasticity like blended eggs. And now you're leaving. And now I'm preventing myself from caring with the help of memory, and the help of maturation, although developing you like a photograph into ink onto a page with a pen in my hand signifies a far cry from what a gentleman is capable of accomplishing. I could have written a thousand different things right now, but instead I chose to search so desperately for a way to rid you of my thoughts. By turning you into only those electrocutions of synapse responses -reactionary timing: a ricochet-, and all history. We are no longer a society of social comfort, two tongues and legs twisted over blue carpet. Remember the fireplace you could never light? It will forever remain in the past next to all of the good and the bad, and the saddest remainder is that you'll only remember the worst of me. You always have.

If We Die Burn Down the Forest

The last of the last, lying in their sooty graves.
Their arms reaching for a final embrace,
prosthetic limbs, nimble and fat, for the taking.

I took the chance and burned my eyes and their
paths to my mind -my head split at the turn of
their necks :::all at once::: they wouldn't allow
me to kiss their departed flesh: cold cash &
colder hearts alongside tombs with every
good Christian woman's favorite artwork.

Their last 20 days were without speech and
instead of talking, they had to communicate in-
side of their minds, blindfolded, always fighting.

I shook up the foundation they were buried under,
and once the maggots drew breath of the earth's air,
we (showered once) said our goodbyes, but never
said a word. The end was like a dying elephant:

it's long, gray trunk, leapt from its face,
making noise :::squall::: that carried a tone
like dark chocolate into my heart, and I felt
the plates of its feet collapse onto the cement
tile. And I tried to ease the flame. And I tried
to ignite the fire inside, with hope that there
would be one, but the dust from her chest
was all that drew while my mouth was on her,
while my body and arms grasped the outer crust
of her heels, praying to the stars to spare
what I had once thought to be one of their very own.

Raging Lucan, Color Me In

An apocalypse
of the mind
and the taste
of wintermint
chewing gum;
each chew was
like a paint brush
stroke, deserting
a thickness for
a better world,
for a better page
with no revelation
and no consideration
of a solitary source
of water.

A theory needs
only three days,
like the body in heat,
the body in reality,
so to speak.

The literalists
were calling
to each other,
six feet away,
on the ground,
pointing up
to a cloud-dispersing
sky.

There are no clouds,
only sun and blue.
Everyone's happy
because it's their
favorite, happy hue.

A castle rides down
a hill like a roller
coaster without..
Wings were attached,
but sustainability
is a beauty
that takes an hour
in front of the mirror
each morning.
And that same mirror
smiles when you
smear an upending
arch across it.
Carve a sideways
"D" into every object,
innate or not. Carve
a "you" and a "me,"
an "epilator" and
an "ice cream."
It's a shore thing.
Like licking sand -only
now the trumpet creeper
curdles.

A hand cannot save
a dying flower,
no matter no matter.
Density to
a decent degree: what
the "you" actually needs.
If "you" were only
a vine decorated
in pink floral. (where are all the seedlings?)

An apocalypse
of the mind,
so to speak.

Thunderstorms

Clouds are chocolate in love and lovemaking, like raking autumn leaves, yellow and ruby.
We play the chords in augmentation inside our thoughts, the keys are only distraction, preventing
us from coming on. And thunderstorms are weakest at dawn, trembling to turn their lights down
low, keep the music running, it's our favorite song. There's ice cream at the bar, and a shot
of whiskey downtown. Get some while it's hot, while we're the only ones around. 
Our I's and we's withdrew from their shelter, and struck it rich under the soft corner of summer. 

((Salt our wounds, we are ready.))

_____________________________________

"As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives."