There’s something about late September
that makes me want to text people
I only miss when I’m too tired to lie.

There’s a moth in my mouth again.
I try to sing and it *****.

Some nights I rehearse conversations
with people I haven’t forgiven.
Some of them are alive.
Some of them are me.

I keep a list of people
I swore I’d stop dreaming about.
I keep dreaming anyway.

I talk to no one
like they’ll answer differently this time.
I wake up with a wingbeat
pressed into the backs of my teeth.

I think I’m leaking
something no one taught me how to name.
It leaves stains on my straws
It fogs the mirror before I do.
It answers to my voice
but only when I’m not using it.

There’s something about late September
that makes everything feel returned,
but not forgiven.
I don’t text them.
I let the silence say maybe I meant to.

I push my fear behind my eyes
Further back than I can see
My dream has been eaten by lies
But I am no fig tree

I'm an orange watching my brethren
Ants chewing on their rotting skin
Their future, I was supposed to share in
Their peel, greenish of sin

I'm watching a rotting fig tree
That I know someone must've seen before
I mouth her, she mouths me
Is this all I'm waiting for?

My future may be determined
A rotting orange is all it may be
I thought it was self-determined
But I am no fig tree.

Loud head. Silent mouth.
Loud thoughts. Empty words.
Loud pain.
Screaming, deafening pain.
Numbness.

The
evil, vi-
triolic, m-
arrowed, m-
emories, that,
travel, through,
hollow-*****, w-
ords, come-forth;
a, cerulean, reverie,
from, the, decaying,
skeleton, of, a, whale's,
mouth, and, sweep, the,
landscape, like, a, desola-
ting, tsunami-wave, of, cada-
verous, cartilaged, evocations,
destroying; lives, loves, relation-
ships, and, long, lost, treasuries.
                                 Drowned.
                     Never,
                to,
           be,
found.

© poormansdreams

Silent Picture Book
worm-etched warmth
cocoon coop-cope
deep-dive wings
emerald waters Shores

Molokai Melting Man
mouth moon moth

main inspiration mute
moon cold draft move
press inscript pencil
sun rising melts still
thread resounding threat

sane symmetrical sense
eyes emotional ease

bucket-thirsty feel
head-first thought
emotional leech
inner world melt
outer word felt

he rises with words in his  unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup

he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…

South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming

he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .

I always open my mouth
in a wrong time,
in a wrong place.

It is:
All the time. Everywhere.

Not because I say outrageous things,
but because it's so easy to offend someone
nowadays.