Poetry

The Earth’s axis spins on inception’s box. It’s I who grants the release. The ferris wheel’s taunt rings; reflections drown my face in looking-at-you light, the smell of September before it gets cold. Chairs shove, arguing East and West, the taste that lingers, stealing my eye the glass takes Orion. Frances Hall, Niagara Falls, NY: she was less calculated than I, I am not that intentional. How much of what I am doing is actually getting done? The gold star oracled to lose. “You up?” Called the cornfields before me. Beat up ankles answered the phone and the roof yelled, “I want to be famous!” I do not want to be famous enough to know fame. You learned the guitar and never heard me play. The drenched typewriter pleading hello to goodbye, at peace with war, and connecting the galaxies with hands until too crowded. In that room, the man on the moon hopped on the spinning teacups. You are not the sun if you are not the son. The violin forgot its song and the fiddler on the roof was dead. I could not imagine a morning when day did not find its light. Laser beams burned my fingers; goodnight to the old lady whispering “hush.” Plant, why do you water everyone but yourself? Show them the petals. So today, tomorrow, and the day after that I use your pigments to construct a self portrait, praying to a god you do not believe to grow like the tree outside that window.

I am not a plant you water to grow there is a garden inside my mind I have eaten my vegetables I have said my blessings I have cursed the scales I have had enough lessons the weather is the same up here the rain water is drowning I do not need more thorns to grow from the soil 

I want the present to sprung the gift wrapped pollinating nose tickles the snake skin to shed the rain to create iridescent glow the sunrise to wake up the world to admire the array of buds the flower girl petals the colors only healing can paint

I am good at lying 

Little white lies

That go with my disguise

Golden wings  

So pure and kind 

On the outside 

Of which people see

And breathe 

In my presence 

And would consider my 

Personality when I feel

I don’t actually have one

The feelings are there in 

The black ink blots in

the back of my mind 

Except they aren’t true 

They are the little white lies

That go with my disguise 

Golden wings 

So pure and kind 

I don’t actually feel

Those feelings that 

Are cramped in the black ink blots

In the back 

Of my mind because 

They have been there for 

So long that I have lost 

Touch with them that
I cannot feel them 

Truly anymore 

Nor do I know how to 

Touch them once again

Or even only reach 

Or beg to even catch 

A glimpse of their 

Dappled faces 

That have been 

Cramped in the darkness

In the back of my mind 

Held hostage in the darkness

Of the back of my mind

So weak and cold 

And almost like nothing 

Just like how I feel 

True