i'd sink through these walls
to let yesterday flood every inch of the dreams i singed;
the ones that wind through my body with this feeling
of being lost between myself emotionless
and trancendent in the illumintated linguistics
that spill from our lips. we'll wander jealous roads
awkwardly paved from the trailhead to the turnpike
and gaze hoplessly into something spiritual,
something to manifest and hold on to.
this spring stumbled in drunk from the cold
and melted any signs of detatchment that
left their footprints. our fingers and feet are smearing
themselves slowly, fusing into the floor on this
canvas pre-dawn with the ping-pong effect tension
making eye contact with desire across the room,
tearing through a smokescreen of dead inhibition.
i lost it all in a haze that draped heavily over my shoulders and eyes
like wet grey mesh carrying a strawberry subtlety
and a southern accent. it is when i hear your voice
that proximity loses touch, and the id and the ego give way
beneath my feet, wiring my jaw and mind shut.
i'll be everything in a moment
and nothing in a instant if you hear me speak
to a bottle of honesty, but i'll trap my echo inside
and break it on the sidewalk. and you,
you'll watch it scatter like the ashes of a cigarette out a car window
never hearing it ring but always subconsciously craving the sound.
it resonates like beauty in turmoil
tieing itself in knots of immediacy; tangled hair in perfectly
sloppy segments. but if i told you what it looked like
you'd swallow it and die. i'll show you what tomorrow is
in a new light where yesterday dripped and stained the backs
of my eyelids, and today seems lost to sound and smoke.
all i can smell are the stale peach leaves of a dry teabag
diffusing itself into the last of the february air.
it's the sound of your eyes crying when laughter drops my jaw
on the end of a wave meeting my eardrum at my brain,
each tear studying vigorously the way the light glints
seductively off my teeth, and the color of my lips as they
split and curl upward to bear that light.
i always leave having had enough but still wanting more
and absolutely nothing at all at the same time
in a different place. you've followed and picked it
all apart attatching symbols to meanings that
are usually consistent, but no longer carry that trait.
in your confusion, conclude me
to be an enigma floating somewhere on a plane
of stillness in motion, suffering from fickle desire
and immediacy in distance. i'll trip on the stings
dangling from my fingers, and you'll be lost completely
but tangled in the threads of me in your head where
your heart connects to it. it's longing, and you'll feel it
come on strong, prickling your veins at night
when you're alone, but i'll be here same as always,
bundled up tightly in the sunshine of this beautiful
facade that i wear to protect my skin.

all i want is to have my footprints filled
and my ego to marry avarice, but remian humble.
i want a southern eye, and to know what texas tastes like,
and to shrink the length of nebraska so you wouldn't be so far.
i want you near when you're near, and near when you're removed
but to split myself into multitudes exuding desire
and manipulating time and consequence.
i want you to understand, and myself to be free of the necessity
of understanding, untied, and only partially exposed.
i'll keep the world at the tips of my fingers
and only bind myself when loyalty is near.
i'll embrace my flaws in the privacy of self love,
and you'll always see me beautiful and pre-pardoned
from what you'll never know.
quiero ser lo que es perdido, pero es siempre presente.

woven red threads
in a blue plastic dawn.
it beads and rolls down the length
of a flower petal
to drip and catch on the pavement.
it extinguishes your cigarette
and stifles the words that pour
from your mouth
longing to replace the smoke
that's gone, and satisfy that
long, thin oral fixation.
tell your children not to walk
where the grass grabs their shoelaces,
breaking fingers, scraping knees,
and sleep softly in the woven red threads
that seem to fade in the shadows
of a bible black evening.
it's dull.
i'll show you a thing or two
about moonshine.

with every little hair that rises slowly,
and creeps across the back of my neck, the pavement
seems to stretch for miles longer than it should be.
this corkboard ceiling tacks up photographs of
all the memories that hide our certian secrets. i have learned to
hide mine in the corner of the window well, hoping that
the smoke that rises from tainted lips will never find
what i am keeping because the walls speak too loudly.
they whisper back and forth, drowning their whispers in the
sound of running water. they swim so shallow in my head,
kicking at the insides of my skull, shouting safekeepings
to the tiles, spilling my consciousness down the drain.
in the early hours of this morning, my fever mocks the snow
and scratches hard at the insides of my skin.
all i want is for the heat to leave my fingers, shut my eyes,
and carry me down so you can swallow me whole
inside your arms. the low hum of the street outside the
window softly stifles beauty, and sends me into oblivion.

the space in this room grows to vastness every minute i shut my eyes. i inhale the sounds of
shadows to alleviate some sort of hartache that i can't establish with words, trying to fill
every part of me with some kind of feigned beauty, seeming satisfaction.
a solitary sunday morning, the lonely intermittent hum of the pavement whispers empty words
through my window, and the only thing i can understand is 3:30 am moving so fast
it makes my head spin. the emptiness is clawing at me from beneath my bed,
taunting every muscle in my body and every inch of skin
screaming for a warmth that is not my own to come and hold my heart inside my chest.
somehow, our bodies give way to sand
and i could feel mine sinking away somewhere, lost to subconscious numbness and an
emptiness to sound. the only eyes on me when i wake are those that the walls have
to watch every move i make when they whisper to eachother down the hall.

the numbness in this evening is painful
and i don't know where to begin my endings.
searching desperately for a saviour
and drowning in scents of a tequila-whiskey headache,
i'd never know to own a name
and wear it, like the inhibition i can't keep,
escaping as i exhale.
the depth in the bronze behind brown eyes
is beautiful and stolen,
impossible to decipher in the moments
that slip past guilt, intoxicated
and unnoticed. hours have died and fallen away
in the diminishing conscoiusness clouding
my view. i can't see you from this far away,
and i'll trip over myself until i'm soaked in
the scent of spinning words.

es que no sé ni lo que pasó
ni que veo con mis proprios ojos
entre esta distancia y la comodidad
de una cama agohandome en
palabras extranjeras.

perdóname de esta culpa borracha.

lively and beautiful,
solitary in the sound
of abandonment.
i am running between
the lines of a plaid
piece of cloth
covering the back
of the nerves pumping
heavy veins.
i'll tell it to you to slow
my breath
and steady
my trembling hands.

this morning
the fog on the street
flickered beauty into my window
and i woke up tangled
in anxious anticipation
to feel your breath on my shoulders
and your arms holding up my spine;
looking down on the way my skin
turns to wax
and melts beneath a wholehearted wick
burning away blindness.
the beads of dew on my cheeks
are simply the footprints that the mist
left behind when it retreated
to the mountians,
and the distance grows slim
with each patient morning
as i wait for your presence
to stain my pores
and drip down my eyes.