you are the rain that falls in january. soft at first--
then chaining me to the bed.
your hands, a message from jupiter
swirling around inside my head
and i'm lost in your thunder.
at 4am i hear you call
you ask where i've gone again--
if i will return this time.

when you lied i thought i never loved you.
silver fills the cracks in my fingers
and i've spent one more year under your open sky.

/ you can work here for nine months

/ it’s not like riding a bike
it’s more
like kneeling
in the center
of a stickman’s
nightmare

/ never you mind
the bloated
baby’s
yellow
tooth

/ at least the sick

they confuse
death

we're lead claiming to be paint.

i never had the right.
i never saw black as all of the colors at once,
or as the absence of any,
i just allowed retinas to dance and be still without ever taking any of it in.

monochrome rhymes with monotone but no apartment or pasture has ever been warm enough to call home,
at least for hollow bones and eyes constantly shifting from a gregarious green to a more genuine grey.

no one ever hears the crickets, even when the floodgates are open or we're searching for that perfect shade to transform the canvas.

you were a monkey with a paint brush,
a brief rush of lust disguised as beauty and anything else that retinas could convince themselves to be mindful of.

chipping paint on the garage will remain and any lungs in proximity will continue to breathe in the dead crickets.

i don't have the right and we'll never get it right.

It's delightful!

You're as delightful as Christmas snow
and when I realise I haven't turned my MP3 player up as loud as it can go.
You're as special as laughs with friends
and those books with happy ends.
You're on par with brilliant beaches
and as wanted as succulent peaches,
I love your reaches
to me.
You're as fantastic as a rubber ring to a sinker
and as Friday wine to a weekend binge drinker.
As great as the on time train when i'm running late
and as ace as a welcoming gate.
You're as fine as a clean bill of health,
there's lots of WOW in your wonderful self.

(20 minute poetry)




There's a mite more than words in a book if you look,
there is a world
hiding
in every line

to study, make buddies of paragraphs and phrases that lend you a new view, be it fiction or fact
is one of this life's
greatest pleasures.

It's artistry to be able to recount what is true and with the same pen tell fables to me and to you,

but Arthur's round table aside
in every book there's a place
you can hide
yourself
find yourself and
see others the way others may see.

If karma exists and will be
I hope to come back as a
book in a library
to be loaned out and read

This could be being dead,
but I don't think so.