There is no entrance to a carousel, there are no edges, no exits.
Every point is an embarkation. The destination is your origination.
What makes it cheerful? Is it the waltz, the circus clown music?
There is a carousel spinning in the back of everyone's mind.
Mostly children, adults of children, teenagers in love
its a foggy night
the ocean is dark with a white laced hem
i wanted to see the moon but perhaps it was shy
under the lampshade your fluorescence lights
the bulb
the chair is timid, small, a frozen rabbit
thawing rapidly with the warmth traveling in
white light
i am the cloud that waters you, drowns you
loves you and kills you
I was found on a yellow cement floor, dusted with a broomstick and taken into the family with jaded skin.
My father drove a shiny black car with porous beige leather seats.
My mother laid on the velvet couch for days and days without speaking a word.
do you talk to yourself
in the house when no one's home
the heat's on high and the water is waiting to boil
the blinds are shut and you sit against the window
thinking
your feet bob back and forth under the hem of the chair
like a wandering kite in the sky
i am what i once lost, once owned, once was
a cloud, that went through a transformation and
in place a soul, but arid and lost, floating on a
void blanket like a hot air balloon, who has dumped
its once heavy passengers and
drained its fragrant fuels. Drifting without
limbs and strings, occasionally disguising as
i dipped my hands in a paint bucket black
and all handwriting comes out it in cries
words of water, dry on a vacant plaque
naked in the sun, burnt with holes of lies
unknown is suspicion's
best asset when you lie
behind closed doors.
you answer with a dry laugh
in a desert, i am stranded.
all i can do is listen and ponder
the mountains of sand
A hardened piece of
bubblegum.
bubblegum that
slips instead of sticks.
A hardened stick of
tongue.
tongue that
the way I consume
myself, through the forking and lifting of
nails, the ivory shells upon
my pinkened flesh, inflaming with flowing
love, my
teeth strips its clothes bare.
the way i consume
i lost my way in the shallow end of
this river.
the shore is close and your face is written in the sky
but my feet lay tangled within a muddle too deep
so deep i can barely see if its the rain or grains
thats keeping me from stepping out.
if i could, i reckon that it would feel like clouds
you're asking to be forgotten
a heavy morning with light rain, the city
dresses in black and dances to sirens.
a funeral to attend, the train
creaks in short cries and stops to salute.
a victim of destinations, the ground
because my vision of you is diminishing
into the horizon when the sun's almost missing
because my body blends into the floor and
my shirt could look like blood or sand
you might dismiss me as the type of memory
that you dispose of when it's dirty
i drove myself away on a saturday, the sun vivid the sky
livid and my hearts about to fade- its like no other when you
drive yourself away, from the streets to the air and from the air to the streets,
only the flying stubble grilled off by my tires accompany me, made tired by a few stumbles, and
the exhalation of a tired engine, the dust never made form, never made known,
only a sudden cry into the air behind me, then lost forever into the atmosphere,
never known and never formed, as i join its path when i drove myself away
night reads the day to me, your
face rewinds like a movie, a stampede
trample through the pages of a navy sky, then
speak to me in words of an evening wren, you
continue to pause, here, there and where
the moon is grand and the story is fair
i cannot sidetrack from a tale beautiful
then i came to seriously consider days without you, this day four of me as a surrealist,
an artist independent from any reason or line, and so that when i think of you, all ends melt
like exposed ice cream and drip past my order like hot wax, that when you come across me disguised as a customer,
i have forgotten how my face used to writhe as a dying rose away from the sun, that suddenly my hands were following
form of a jellyfish and soft without bones, that if i were to paint you my heart as a goodbye would the brush still hold?
and if the canvas be desolate of colors and drained with a gilded transparency?
would you then, finally recognize the death and rebirth of my eyes as they shed layers of lament?
would you perhaps come travel into my subconscious and allow me to live a world with you, one of which may be false but all that makes of me,
day three my heart ponders at the possibility of an extension, a bridge between
an unmeasurable distance called time, and a future i foretold called forgetting, but the sight
of an accidental dark stroke upon my pale pillow reigned my heart for a bit, then the scent of you
flooded in me though i can't recall, but i know that any tint of reminder will bring back its entirety, i know it
as if the world was in flames and air was choking on the inevitable breath of fire, i know it like a suffocating
woman, that none else but water filled her lungs and permeated her body, and that all she could smell was the
plain flavor of water mixed in with mud, kelp and fish, and that if she died, will be burdened with the finishing fragrance of
the reminiscent of a made bed reminds me of your last departure,
a morning seemingly so far but only have occurred as of today, earlier when
the sun was bleeding through the lighter portion of my curtains, and your
body unthoughtful offered me your back, a wall too still as to distill my
sound of hello morning to a silent sigh, some frequency a stranger to you yet so dear
to me, you are dear and i hold you as if if i knocked you over, a tremble held
by the fingertips become an earthquake and chemicals would spill, that perhaps the very
for the amount of time i spent trying to describe a solitary moment worth mentioning between you
and I, it perhaps has been long enough for either of us to discover the meaning of love, and because its existence is mere, suddenly it
has become very apparent to me, once upon the middle of a night, that that very moment is actually mundane, not quite as romantic as
a flutter of an eyelash or a glance back after goodbye, it is the very realization that I wanted such a moment so dear, that every moment seemed
to be as minute and detailed as i saw it, because i wanted a moment to remember for the rest of my life, i watched every strand of hair of yours
dance from the tosses in bed till the ocean wind blows it dry, every slight tonal switch in your smile from silence to break; i saw the subtle curl from
your lips coral breach and seashell teeth, but the light haze of the fume softly creeping, gentle infusions may be unknown to the water but close to me like
