devils in our palms, (light lights love's love-handles but never cornered corners)

it’s funny how things work.
we walk armless ...

with good intentions placed where our necks meet our shoulders,

but always with devils in our touching palms.
we weather storms

but too quickly break our oars before we reach the islands
who are we to intimidate segregated feelings?
who was we?
we race along this love life lit lifeless loveless path,
in dreams to one day meet the window
when do we shut the door?
when do grey clouds turn light to day and night to existence?

.rain.man.

The rain man came one day.

With a heart made of thunder and puddles of conversation to light the way. He spoke of the universe. Of things once accepted and things never understood. Of medicine and addicts and wined lips and sin. He left her broken. Shattered to the stars with no negative space to hold her in place.

When he returned again, her heart spoke soiled pasts. Nervous, she jumped into the rain man’s puddles again. Only to be left sucked dry and thrown into the sea.

As she drowned, she said goodbye to the heartless.

... kismet ...

friends manage to blow brains of existence aside
full heads wait

saying goodbye is never easy
but you blur outlines beyond description

i twine
in confusion.

farewell
and wait …
you leave to foreign countries as
stars make stares unfavorable …

for different minds to sort different coherence
accept what is
moreover, what should be?
but ifs and shoulders are so easily thrown
when scratchy throats aren’t purged

ingemination.

knives sculpted into birds
clipped of wings
always in hopes

play hearts like others play promises
never knowing how effects affect beings

hearts are hard
nevertheless, soft with
second times

hurt …
forevers hurt worse.

spain waits and others call for broken hearts like their own
forgetting what spades felt like when aces were drawn

immeasurable eyes
built gutters in dams and ponds

goodbye to europe …

finalmente, en este segundo capitulo
tener cuidado con la pintura
tirarlos
no todos los corazones son como la sombra que los suyos greyly

gutter.

rain squares heavy on unabled
postures and I find myself missing
the way my feet meet the
puddles your gutter forms
more than I want to or
every thought I would ...

fixed in parenthesis

history nourishes broken swings while lovers
bring gifts of cut-out, disposable

hearts to walk, scissors in hand with this army
to win the battle of love but

lovers never win and blue skies often rot into a
reprehensible burial ground of paper mached souls

from the funeral, weeping willows walk through
labyrinths, lanterns-lit, just enough to glow pale

flesh to hope, but leaving stomachs clenched for earth-
quakes. they shuffle with blistered palms

until two meet with incompatible motives in common
brows and begin to cook this raw creation. anchors

drop as they breath water into wordless cups
voices learn to drink the tears. trades made of

cleavers for touches, until time's stare brings
the slaughter,
bleeding the slits from each other's wrists

...to the shrimp...

here is my offering of an unpolished friendship
one that is serrated and can cut deep enough to scar...
but i will pour myself through this strainer
so these healthy pieces of me can fill you up
and use white-out on my imperfections
so that your story remains perfect
because we can never see past these bridges we've built
in order to block our horizons
but i'm alright when you're alright...
stomachs often hold on to hurt much longer
than hearts do
creating a corset wall to block out anything that means something
while in these grey skies we thrive
leaving shadows across our eyes...
sharp stings revive us
and we are never more alive then when we are damaged and departed...
the wind fills us up with negative space
while we draw our insecurities across our backs
and all float away separately...
even though i don't have the glue or strength to hold you,
shattered together,
with mountains and skyscrapers that keep you in your fortress...
i can build you a break
to free your somber branches
because you cant stop thinking
and bends eventually break when
your face is all wet from things i cant fix...
ill like your depression
and swollen wrists...
because we are all
helpless and withered at some point

interpersonal swimming pool: sections of the deep end

life is not the same now
smiles graze these sullen cheeks
like those who shine sunlight
but my being remains dark
like the shadows
i place myself
in

why stay?
in this place
frequent thoughts
speak with much
persuasion

i tend to feel best when my
eyes are closed
so i think just may stay
this way for
a while

and happiness is nothing
but a liar
it said it would always
be there
and being is nothing but a game
because it steals pieces of you
when you need them the
most

i feel like a stranger
in my most comfortable
skin
and while i watch these
eyes water to the top
i secretly ring them out
until they are dry...
so no one
sees

and for a moment,
i thought the world of
life
but the sun sank
and the oceans burned
dark...

i think ill roll my pants
and walk into this ocean
so that the water only graces my
feet

just to lick these wounds until
they are clean again
so they may be stitched and left
to heal without any noticeable
scars

because these photographs keep me
alive
but i for now remain
stale