I'm trying now

To think about,

The thing I just forgot.


Where did it go?

It was right here.

And now I am without.


It's hiding now.

From me, I guess.

It must have run away.


I wish it would stay

Here with me.

I didn't want to play.


Is that it, there?

Behind the couch?!

I wish it would stay put.


I quietly

Run up to it,

And touch it with my foot.


Oh, my God!

It isn't mine!

It angrily kicks back.


"What the F,

you doin' B?!"

It verbally attacks.


I cower now,

Behind the desk.

"Leave me be and go away!


I didn't mean

to startle you.

Where is my thought? Which way?"


Just then it reoccurs to me.

Oh, right.

That's what it was!


I think it now,

Inside my head.

"Man, that's a good buzz!"

We had a white tea ***,
And some random Sundays
Only a teapot between us
Near an autumn lake
In a faraway places
and endless cups of tea
Where did that go?
Now the only thing that
I can see is someone?
Paint blue in the white sky

Music. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Over my shoulder, though,
I've got ghosts and granules.

Voices. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Evolved use of spoken
word, just to squander it.

I look around,
just to see,
loving my pointlessness
has afforded me,
nothing but
lack of company.

Quote me on this, please.
" I Love It "

Getting home.
Getting ******.
No aqualung, here.
Here, the lobes,
evergreen.
I'll die,
but I'm
perfectly fine
in my own eyes,
to be alive,
nowhere beneath,
yet.

I see youth in a haze
Sunny afternoons from Mars
Been chasing stars

World still turns
Joints burn
I go back to sunny afternoons
Still in a haze
Now I chase the Moon

out on the main street
cars and trucks sluice through puddles
that pothole the road

My chest is a clay ***,
The kind with the round body and small mouth that your abuela hangs on the porch
And some obscure thing grows from it,
Brown in the winter,
Green in the spring…
My chest is a clay ***.
It holds in everything it needs to,
And it seems perfectly sturdy,
But when the insides get to be too much,
Or the weather gets to be too bad,
It shatters.

My chest is a clay ***,
And inside it is a growing thing.
I don’t know when it’ll become too much to contain,
Or when I’ll have to reach inside and take some out
In order to survive,
But I pray each day that its chalky exterior doesn’t become brittle
And crack.

My chest is a clay ***.