I wonder if you hurt to see me love another
          I hope you
                  do              a nd
                                            d o                          no    t

I want you to know,     I
    wonder too.
        What life is    to    have
     been
with                    y    ou.

I don't look back.
I look sideways at
what could have been.

I don't look back.

I see you in the pupils of
my lover.
Black.

I wonder too.
I wonder.
I wonder
if also
you?

Letters left me last June
and I soon found myself sticking my finger into the flame
and even touching fire I still don't feel that spark
It's not the same.
It's not the same.
So I stick my head, my shoulders, and my name
into fire.
But still
No desire.

How do I break you like a bad habit
Flesh addicted.
Future/present
Tense conflicted.
Past predicted
the future depicted.

The sun sings, "Why the winds do blow
across the planes of the earth,
I shall never know."

The planes of earth
the never knew who to look up to
finally fly up in to the sun.

The sun sets on the worlds below
The sun sets on the clouds to know

"why the winds do blow
across the planes of earth
I shall never know
for I
for I
can never rain, can never snow
Can only warm
surface below."

This is the Wednesday's one am.

A song I don't know and eyes I
have yet to look into.

So much inspiration,
I think I've found my
expiration.

You step forwards—
within my reach
but with every passing day
the dream I've chased
gets farther away once again.
Not you, not you!
But I and my
inevitable leave.

Can we make this last more than just
one night
one night.

Dreams are always dressed in black.
The lack of you I do attack.
Night is where the mind can speak.
You're the only one I seek.
Sleek and steady, I once drew back
In myself I find a crack
But dreams are always dressed on black
And you're the only one I lack.

In dreams of night and dreams of day
I dream of concrete where we lay
In rays of sun: the gaze we weigh.
We stay and wash away the grey
We stay and never fade away
Only in dreams do we ever
               Stay.

"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."*

I say it twice.
Not to enforce a point
but to give both of us
a copy.

I, myself, perhaps a sinner.
You, ourselves, we are:
The saint.

I am your eyelids and the train-tracks of your stitches. I am the cracks in your bones and the wealthy mind riches. I am the fluid of your language that speaks in every sentence of your prose, I am the syllable you cannot speak though your tongue still knows. I am the chapel of your rib cage and the rage that it slows, closing the gates to the crosses in rows. I am the dirt under your cuticle and the follicle of your skin, sprouting a thread of your body within. I am the anxiety of your brain and the ecstasy of your flesh, crawling at the sense that you attain and possess. I am your lost baby teeth and the way that they chatter, I am the neurons, the synapses, the white and grey matter. I am your saliva burning caverns in the cave of your time. I am the line of your lips and the lungs you call, "mine." I am your soul, your secrecy, your sanctity. Your spine.

Komodo Dragons don't stop
to pick off the skin and gut
a ****. Eat the liver.
Eat the kidney. Eat the jugular
vein. Eat the
Cardiac artery.

I lead truth like a thread
through the eye of my
needle, stitched into your iris
and sewed up the virus.
Took bets on bids.
Two kids walking train tracks under your eyelids.

I wish I could skin you of sadness
and offer you more than just
two arms
a shoulder
a heartbeat.

The atoms of which the sun consists
lays upon the land
who can only resist.

No, indeed, I must insist!
The story is etched into murky water and mist:

Oh, the sinking sun—with a twist—
setting on someone
who did never exist.

Sadly, an
"I love you"
and a look into your iris
isn't strong enough of a cure
for this virus.
I would rather you
hit me and make
me realize
that the only way to fix the problem
is to revise my mix of overwhelming
string-of-something-mood-swing so
I am sorry,
Kyran King.

I've always hated how
love can sting.

Sleepy sunset.
Fiddles clicking
keys
into locks
of hair
breadth apart.
A part
of something
much more grand
then we had ever
planned.

Love preservation—
On the metal of the time capsule sits:
a seed.

Rusted butterflies swoop
Fall into the copper canyons of



My tires.

I love you.
I love you like oxygen, like my lungs.
Pulmonary. Coronary.
And although it may make me dizzy,
I love you like my blood.
My veins, venules, arteries, arterioles.
Blood epidemic. Systemic.

[poem]
W0r1d1y th!ng5 are f1337ing.
          
[/poem]

I dedicate this to
The uncle I never knew
Who moved into town
after molesting half of my cousins.

The grandfather I didn't even know was alive
Until a week after he died.
******* and **** stains
Dredged into the carpet.

I don't know they look like.
No photo album kept.
No photo album kept.

Monopoly.

Playing both
red and blue.

If you own all the railroads is there really any point in travelling?
You'll just stay in your own hotel.

For the one-night stand I have never had and the
Future I'll gladly take like a powder
In a nine dollar drink
On the rocks.

Bartender.

You fade away like the borders of a country I will only ever visit on a map

(A world government:
Takeover—
Dictatorship)/'


.

Sorry    mother,
Haven't written much.

Too busy putting
    poetry and syllables
into overseas and livables.

That's why the sun
makes you cry
When you stare him
in the eye.

Overload—
Love: authentic.
Benefits: carcinogenic.

Dilate my pupils, my love, my veins.
(I'm) In sane- In sanity.
Vanity of all around
Found a friendship in the faucet
Washed the powder down with bottled water


        stolen.

Let me hold this feeling
Until I can give it back to the sun
Wonder when the world will
wash away wishes with a whiteness

Wholeness
     Stolen.

Happiness.
     Swollen.

Uncontrolled.      Uninhibited.

Why won't the world let me
love the world    with my  madness
My - driasis.

Dilated so I can take essence in.

  Sin.

                         Stolen.

Unspoken syllables still saying the story
that I can't comprehend with an earlobe
and an ear-drum,
with a bass-drop, ego sum, meticulous amour.

Hand dancing
Prancing like Bambi as she creates
assorted laughter and the stars control.

How beautiful,
with a bass-drop, ego sum, meticulous amour,
the language is a mountain of another planet Earth
all spoken in

Sign language
Poetry.

The addict and his needle
She holds him by command.

Love, infectious as she comes..
concrete is like her hand.

and still he picks her up again
and still he holds her close
Still he puts her to his vein and both
They overdose.

How can you see colors but not
how the things you say

      (hurt me).     /

So unclear, some find it
Nuclear!

The modern battle
     Of science and art,
Takes up space,
     Within my heart.

The beauty of rebel symmetry,
And lines in every direction,
Commands equal attention from me,
As the brain's constant connection.

But, suppose, they ever did combine...
Possessing traits from the art and science mind,
To successfully dominate
                                both their kind.

Seven seas and billion people.
When we grow will we
upgrade the ocean?

Walking backwards
Past Israel and Politik
Trying to find
That post-
time era when
you hadn't yet met
the sickness.

Breathe out. Breathe in.
Ideas high-strung,
out of your grasp,
in crossbars above.
Find a topic—
Angst, grief, fantasy, love.
Reach. Stretch.
Contort your body into long and thin.
Breathe out. Breathe in.

Live to standards man has set.
Emotions. Thoughts. Blood. Sweat.
Fealings on paper, sealed in ink.
But no words to connect and link.

Dig deep into the corners of your mind.
Find the place where it's just instinct.
No hearing.
No sight.
Become deaf.
Become blind.
No mental thought.

And write. Just write, about the expression you sought.

Hurry up, dearest poet.
The deadline? Tonight.
Pick up your poetry and write. Just write.

How do I let you back into my life

When you slammed
the door
in my face
and only opened it
when you got lonely.
Saw me dead on
the doorstep.


How do I let you back into my life

When the title
of this poem
is the title of the song
that I spent years
wasting time
on loving you
like you never
spent
on me.

And I let you in
And I let you in, again.

"Run. And never stop."
She didn't say it,
She wrote it.
On an old platform we used to
cross our competitions
and
She won.
She always won.
And I told her as
she got on the plane
"Run. And never stop."*
Later, again,
I didn't write it, I said it to her
as she called me from the hospital payphone.

I saw you in Tim Hortons for the first time in three years.
You told me I had grown and
I congratulated on you on your weight loss.


She is my best friend.
You didn't raise a child,
You raised an ironwork frame.
You threw a girl into reality before she could even spell the word.

And I would love to look at the other side, but I can't—
it always loops back around like that little girl
doing circles around on her ten-speed as she pulls up
to the convenience store to buy you cigarettes.

Hey, at least you called her an ambulance—
On Thanksgiving Day when she passed out
from lack of nutrition because you spent your last welfare check
on something I don't even want to hear your excuse for.

I remember my mother, coming into my room at eleven pm on a Wednesday, telling me to put some shoes on because you snapped a pool cue and placed it to a guy's neck.

My pajama pants ripped as I broke into your apartment to wake my best friend up and tell her that my mom was parked outside and she had to spend the night at my house.

You spent the night in the drunk tank hitting on officers.
She spent the night beside me crying and asking for any other mother but you.

We were in grade 6.

When she was 13, she had to live with me for 3 months because social services deemed you, "unstable."
When she was 14, she moved away to the city because she couldn't handle you anymore.

I went to visit her last weekend and she didn't say a single word about you.

Turn off your electric
revival.
Fold yourself into
flesh origami
Undress into blankets
In you, I find
eternity yearns.

Let us sleep forever
Wake up when the past returns.
Through war and dystopia we shall
sleep forever
and wake
at every
day.

Will you create with me?
Silence says what silence speaks,
Not what your worries tell you.

I could live a lifetime's worth of lifetimes and still never meet anyone
Just
Quite
Like
You.

A millennium from now when
I am buried and you are alive
through the pages of the poetry and letting your voice live through songs or speeches.
You will still cross my mind like our local mountain paths.

One day I will
Publish ten books of poetry and
Burn eleven of them.

How sickly, the world of man
Who devote only
but a day to all
expression.