Is it blood, or is it wine,
That drips down your pallid forearm.
Tracing your flexor carpi.
Chasing your elbow sharply.
Dancing to your palpitating heartbeat.

Mucous lines-
Your nose;
     The tattered sleeves of your unwashed clothes

You sit there, at the cluttered table, across from her coffee cup
You sit there, muttering your woes.
Seething as you stare at it.
It's still half empty,
Within it a kaleidoscope of mould grows.

As the bacteria grows, and she begins to decompose.
It chews on her skin,
Six foot under, in the hardwood coffin she now resides in.

It's time now.
Let go from within
Stand up now.
Drop her coffee cup.
Drop her coffee cup
     In
          To
               The
                     Bin.

I’m running out of pages to keep myself calm
I’m running out of time
And I’ve only answered so many questions
I am no longer authorized to print
Handle-with-care packaging
And I am running out of blue crayons to color in the oceans
As fast as it takes to finish this Carpi Sun
I’m running out of words to make you forgive me
And running out of Uhms in between sentence
To buy some time—
Maybe, I’m losing my ability
of a first grader gazing among tall buildings

Farting felicity -
How long gone, now a
distant star in space-
as a gurgling brook of
heavenly murmurs, disquiet
thrumming combo, turned
crescent flesh, brutal and subdued until,
one socializes, recombines,
and altruism visits, presides, provides.

Carpi, digitorum, and flexors,
metacarpals, index, and fingertips
dangle a top for a gambler's game,
and, with it, the fate of outcome, and
woe for the long-begotten soul,
the soul drab in its rag, robe, and *****,
whose wealth subtracts as it doth add,
and a wise fool realizes -
Time and grace,
Love and death,
departure and arrival,
is but ******.