Incidentally climbing
ladders—

riches to come, decisions
to be overruled.

Leaving it up to imagination,
musing prospects, free rep, and
formulation processes.

Forte-incredible, majestic,
indispensable.

Irrational deception,
I just about deceive myself.

Flippancy rules the
curse where I come from,
now, baby, give me yours.

Fresh, and tainted are
the milestones of my heart.

There is a
garden waiting for me.

But whose is most like
a desert?

Words that curse,
drugs that bring you
back to life.

People that never
shut up, the funfair

up the road selling
goods

better than
me.

Out of the fire,
quick! into dawn—

passion,
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt,

curtains turning gold
from yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead,
swallowed up.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush,

a hole in the path
could take away our
chances,

but magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?

Our lives
are like cardboard
boxes,

there's only so much
they can retain.

If the pressure's
too great

it will break,
shattering what's
inside.

I loved you
like childhood,

but I guess
we all have to grow up
sometimes.

Wanting to go back to sleep
I argue with the sun,

bed sheets mimicking rude hand
gestures—

and already, these
coiled memories are unraveling themselves

like intestines from a soldier's
stomach.

I write better
with a little something
stuck to my heart,

latched on for dear
life, trying not to lose
grip, be forgotten.

Sometimes I’ll let it
hang, just to feel the pull,
and eventually it will

climb back up,
like a cat coming home
for food.

And sometimes, my
brain, it says

“Hey! Have you
forgotten about me,
or something?”

But, I say no.

Because none of
these words

would actually
make sense, otherwise.

Just random
blotches of red ink,

illogical
patterns staining
the page.

Entering unknown,
sitting, drinking, waiting.

Staring down from
pub balconies, out
large windows;

I see how
people go places,

how they look like
other people.

Turning my head,
I notice how my eyes
are avoided,

a space as small as
a hotel room.

Connecting past with
present,

familiarity grows,
like an extra limb from
the center of my chest.

I'd like for us to
have the chance

to find that place
we call our own.

The kind you'd
visit as a child,

making beds in the grass,
drawing stories in the dirt;

climbing fences
that prevented cows
from getting out.

The kind with a view,
a wide-stretched vista;
sun, hills and sky;

another world
created purely for
it's viewer.

—And I remember
as a child,

I'd resort in
covering my face,

when there was
nowhere left to hide.

But with dirtied
hands it's not so easy,

my shadows
take good care of that,

and I save my light
for whoever sees past
them, before

knowing what was
really there.