4th floor stories

I'll write you down
until the letters fall
off their chairs,
staring off,
wishing you were a little less
like them and more
like me,
but in any case,
I'll buy the next round,
but I don't want you
to talk about it.
Just drink it straight
down, 130 miles south
till the flowers come
sprouting through
this window I've been
watching for hours,
counting all the silver seconds
we've shared.
Not nearly enough
as I presumed.

I was once alive

Each time I stop to think about how beautiful life is
I wonder about all my potential,
then tangential thoughts come pulling me off the tracks,
and I realize I lack the stamina,
Devotion is my neighbor
but all I savor is the experience
and the idea,
not the planning,
And theory is great,
for someone who sits alone at his desk
waiting for remarks of late to manifest themselves
in action, or inaction.
Now my mind is just mumbling,
like a studious schizophrenic,
I panic at the though of me losing my dreams,
when all the seams of the bubble clouds burst into nothing
but pockets of air suffocating me with all the fresh scents
of heart breaking reality.
It took me 20 rounds to realize life was a play
I will always be the same character,
except you can't joke when your turn comes,
'cuz you need to be serious, seriously
look at how the dice are rolled,
who controls the turning of the board,
Lord have mercy on me,
I'm wretched and I'm tired
but I want to play
I beg you,
fix my broken legs and we can pretend
like nothing happened,
and that only the flowers were coaxing me
below the dirt, and I will always remember
this old familiar smell
of dust and hurt.

Snowflakes

I know you
have no memory
I could never stick
like the pictures you loved.
Only I recall,
the night when
the sky was dark purple
and the snowflakes flew
straight to your eyes
magnetized by the beauty
of the poles
I kissed you
because your eyes told me to.
And I breathed my deepest,
deep enough to suck
the life from your lungs.
Your heart through your lips
vacuumed clumsily into me.
Held it in
resuscitating you with winter
wind romance.
Just a lonely couple
of minutes
then it climbed its way out
tugging on veins,
strangling my vitals
scratching inside.
Pulling its mirror
organ out with her,
mimicking the owners.
Still missing.
You don't remember
how hard I held you,
how sweet the air
between our lungs
was passed.
You only remember
the night
and how the snowflakes
left those cute violet
smears around
your eyes.

Spilt Milk

Words are funny
The way they taste like honey
When they exit the mouth,
The sound is born 2.8 centimeters south
Of the epiglottis, and all the rhyming
Formed in the brain is sent downstairs,
Until it’s at the tip of your tongue,
The bottom rung of the ladder breaks,
And you would have hoped
The latter was stronger,
Perhaps more profound,
But each time you look,
You’ve found the same answers,
Thoughts are just electrical impulses,
Or dancers, skipping, prancing,
Around the corners of the squish,
And you wish there was more
To it than this, but when it’s all there,
It’s still as vague as this,
But that’s the point,
Sense is for the senseless,
One more blink
And I’m done with this.

Forgetting About

Taking pulls from a warm flask
Of Jack in the passenger’s seat,
Bottoms up, eyes closed,
Swerving through lanes at the grocery
Store my fondest memories
In the baby blue envelope you mailed me last
Sprayed with your sweet and familiar
Plum and coke perfume,
You, me, and leather seats in summer heat,
Chugging chocolate bars at Barnes and Nobles,
Before we race to my car in the crowded parking
Lots of times you could have stayed at
Home instead
We spent nights memorizing movies and the lines
On each other’s palms, and the glass
Globes on display, at the mall
We used to rendezvous at the same corner
After you got off work and your high heels
Turned your feet blue and cramped, crammed
Your hands in my pockets when you forgot
Your gloves in your room
Needed a new light bulb, bright and florescent like
The moon you said and smiled and
Laughed whenever I tried biting your ears
Always got cold first and last
Year was the best year for falling
In love and life was meant for accidents like this
Was what I waiting for
A long time to tell you, “I can’t
Say it, so I’ll write it,” in the loudest pen I have
Only one sheet left-
Handed scribbling:
Goodbye, Goodbye
Goodbye
Good
Bye.

Nothing to do on a Sunday Afternoon

The door opens on its own,
and I continue to count the hairs
on my leg.

Six and half days

The daylight shivers when the clouds hang low,
they exhale softly, through my frame, like the leaves
swirling around me, the pollen floats
in synchronized, diagonal fashion
across the field,
across my face,
bombard me gently
like feathered bullets
in nature's playful barrage.
And now I can see the sun
peeking through
with a wide grin.

Six days

The day is cold
but my hood is long enough
to cover my whole face.
Sitting on the back porch steps
trying to figure out
how to capture the beauty
of this morning moment.
Well,
that is the dilemma
of the senses.
Use truth and detail.
Lies are also composed
of vivid details.
Do you see how
complicated this is?