Keys

Silvery,
decisive incisions,
their lining
is thin,
ever so finely
notched. The
tumblers,
they know it,
children, they
know it also,
and adults,
well..
that just
depends on
what
those slick
notches
unlock
is.

I Like What it Does

There
are days
when I can't
think
of anything
but your
electric fur
and how
it warms
my hands
-the skin,
your skin,
so sweet,
so neatly
wrapped
around the
caged marrow,
-the bones,
your bones,
like arrows
outshooting
past your finger-
tips...
i still
remember back
when,
back when you
believed
the words,
believed that
rotten pity,
that rancid,
3am sewage
of remorseless
pity
i
demanded.
No bones
about it,
i wanted
you dead
just so
you could
open your
eyes,
and look
at me
looking
at you.

The Zooffice Episode 15: Consequences

Pillow Cases

are the jewelry box mahogany;
their deviation witheld
inside the locking mechanism,

they hold and never look
intuitively.
Feather-made, diamond

encrusted mineral nightmares;
the innards of which
the mightiest of men have

laid to weep, to soak-out
their revelations,
to relax their darkest demons.

Love Poem

Love is something I thought it never was, and was something I never thought it could be. It still is.. You see, I was once in love, thought I was in love, wrote about how I was in love, and talked about how in love I really was. And truthfully, I was. She had gilden blonde hair that dropped every time she took a pin out of it, and every time I took a pen out of my cup, I couldn't write anything else besides what she represented to me: not flowers, chocolate, and other colorful candy, but just that -colorful as she can be. And I'm sure she still is, as colorful as any woman can be. Our love wasn't the type of love that drove birds of a feather from the lips our friends mouths, or flocked together any stereotype like the princess and the frog, and no we never called each other dogs, but sure as hell ran when we sensed open spaces... with our tongue out mind you. Scratch that, I think I was the dog, the one chewing on our furniture, tearing pages out of memory books and knickknacks, always having her pet my head and scratch my back until my tail wagged forth and back. Or was it "back and forth"? I never really paid attention, and detention? That was what I felt when everything ended, you see, I was an eagle for a moment. When I thought that I could fly up to the tallest rock, stare down at the world below and nestle myself an impression. When in reality I was just guessing. And I'm still guessing; that it all will work out in the end, that I'll find love and satiate my hopes and desires, extinguish my only burning fire, an open flame that challenges every contestant. So keep lining them. I won't even begin to show interest until one like my mother takes the stage, scolds me for not cleaning my room, when only a few days later puts everything I own away. She will be Italian, talk with her hands, say things to make me question the multiple connections language makes and every possible direction I'm left covering up mistakes. She'll have an adage about the way she routinely dresses: red and purple stripes, blue jeans, rings, earrings, and an occasional necklace, white shoes that one can only run in, and hair that falls down to her tail end. But she will care about me like nobody could ever know. She will care for the world as she does for organs in her own body. She will drop everything like a surprise party surprise just in order to help with maths. My language arts was fine, my father taught me how to read way back... when I was four and only looked at pictures: a white boy with yellow hair and an imaginary tiger. My Mother would never be too busy to laugh at what I thought was funny. And she immediately taught me the importance of money. And family. Which is why when I say "Love Poem," and you laugh, it pains me. It pains me to know that what you imagine as love, is not what I imagine love to be. It's not diamonds in the sand, digging your feet into the covers and cuddling at night, playing needle in a haystack without the lights. It's about trust and growing up... knowing when to unconditionally be interested, and learning to forget the definition of "give up." My Mother, I never wrote for you because I never wrote about myself in a loving manner. All I am is because of you, and in the end, that's all what's inside a Love Poem that truly matters.

The Zooffice Episode 14: When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go!

If You Really

Lemon drop lips, dropped and agape; Jesus Christ, when I arrived, the fruit bowl or "fruit spring" as you called it, was empty. All but the pear at the bottom. Bruised and browning, I touched its stalk, gritty flesh and took a bite. I placed it back and the open wound, -there opened an early-morning crescent moon- untraceable in its murmur, spoke toward the tongue residing briefly within my throat and said "sanctum salivary, save me."I realized then that you were right.

The Zooffice Episode 13: Down Time

The Source

I've written towards cornering you into some abysmally dark space, much like pushing a pearl into the depths of the universe. When it was I who was out of place.. was.. is.. even just the word "place" is such a burden upon the mind; how the multitude of meaning surrounds the snake-like sound sneaking between one's teeth, the word, an escape from responsibility: not my, the wrong, too much trust was, there isn't a. And I hope you know, you're beautiful. It was that I found myself in your perspective of me, whatever became of my reflection inside of your vanity, its frame of organic polymers smoothing the edges. But it couldn't sooth mine and reflected them your way instead; only they were razor-edged and laid across the blankets and pillows where you lay your head: a place where I thought I found you and I both, but was mistaken. It was only again, my reflection.

Could Do Better

i persist,
and the intent, so it be,
refashions.
in this place
zeal is little
more
than a color;
a mix
of beryl
and blue,
or maybe maroon,
when this place
becomes
another space
for a
fashion room.

Thole

From the faucet, a droplet.
I cupped my fingertips together
supposing I could accomodate
a body fluid and cold, wet.
Go and it goes. Push tighter
and it goes. My palms overlap,
it goes. Soluble -my skin,
the soap, and within, my soul.

After the Other

There is always someone else.

Before or after, the wind at the back door,
banter go the branches, a blackened chatter
where the moon watches over, glowing.

That man is laughter. That man is your lighter
when you need nothing else but fire. Collider,
they called her, whenever she would bring
a steady face to dinner -pretty she would say.

After or before, the glass and its watery core,
firm sugar, stored in its center, the ice carrier,
mine and yours, lips like lemon rind pores.

There is always someone else.

The Zooffice Episode 12: Zoobooking!

The Zooffice Episode 11: The gift That Keeps On Giving