Telepwn

Freedom rings!
in the form of
a new number.
Selective solidarity.
Better yet,
selective amity.

Two-Day Lament Allowance

Almost like I
asked in advance
she left me looking
a little less like myself
and two days from now
I’ll start to see the sting.
No time to recover,
nomadic hunches
deemed this land barren
and I’m on the move again.
I’m keeping a running tally.

Blessings

I think I’m taking knees,
counting all my blessings.
One, two.
For awhile I thought there was
one, two, and you.
And it sounded so astonishing
when you said it, but
the same words breached my
firmer tone and suddenly
didn’t mean anything.
So today I counted all my blessings:
one, two.
And I used to have you too.

Momentary

I’ll do better.
Build base back into
depths of pasts
I buried for Some Reason.
Wake up five years later,
better yet,
wake up at all.
Waiting on the implication
replaces faltering reverie.
Ho hums.
And each breath weighs
ten tons and four tongues
all wag at the thought:
I’ll do better.

Urban

Calling out for

offbeat soapbox socks

but still kicking it with

sufficed to say phrases

drawn out from tailpipe

tongue symphonies.

Words leave grit.

San Diego

Oh time’s growing old
watching the way she walks,
away. Let’s blacken our eyes and
black out our minds and
forget we ever even tried.
So breaking up and breaking out,
maybe even breaking down
but only on the inside,
here’s to take two.
And if that fails
take two of take two cos
anything more seems desperate.
Yeah, like we're keeping it classy.

The Feeling's Mutual

She thought she knew me
based on crooks in my back
but I beg your pardon madam
I’ve always been this hardened and
I think I at least warrant
a second look.
From one song bird to another
I’m bridging lungs together and
maybe even humming,
but not likely.
I’ll hold my one tongue, two tongue,
three tongue, four,
but anything more and
it might merit discourse.
To be safe I’ll stop at three.
I can’t help but laugh every time
she thinks she knows me.

This Is Why (We Fight)

Jaws ajar, like collecting falling stars.
And they’re always falling.
Someone else’s dream
diminishing on my tongue.
Everything’s been said.
My eyes are more than mirrors
this time, one time.
Reflections, recklessly stitching
assumed seams projecting
their own means.
Still the words aren’t right.
But I’ve already said them all.
Whose disengaged lips
sanctioned my star to fall?

Formal Invitations

Slanderous by nature, and oh.
Yeah, she fell in love again.
I have no title to scratch away yet,
too easy a target.
Repetition maps out
predictable lapses in my
cerebral awareness.
And oh.
Yeah, she rains to rust my
lead pipe dream fantasies.
Sixth time charms and
critics believe me, even
praise my soon to be
ship wreck policies.
Yeah, pioneering, I'm sure.

Count to Forty-Eight

Suddenly, tangible.
Solitaire from here on.
Feels like
lost all sentiment.
It’s an ode to
how you know it should:
seeping. Finding holes to fill
with nothing in particular.
Snake tongues.
Prying others eyes,
no sleep tonight.
They’ll hiss and cry,
leave flowers in their place.
More empty than when they arrived
each stumble to remnants.