You! Triple-headed human hear the wounded wail of the loon Cerberus, notice nature and her rare haunting grounds within your internal territories,
You! Double-chambered human tremble beneath the weight of decision and indecision, pump and blend unruly reflexes into a spontaneous dynamo of plucky will
You! Single iceberg of seen and hidden complexes, peaks of which melt and float, freeze and sink, once the best of you interrupts the worst of you, gratefully embrace the pause of ill will.
Bittersweetness is a sneeze reflex.
It sneaks up on the unsuspecting
stranger better than a pickpocket does.
Neglected feelings evaporate, condense and then
become a cloudburst that drenches the present.
Nostalgia is a downpour of blurry, broken images.
Photo credit to Todd Becker
T-boned by a carjacker who had overdosed on opium, I rolled over, as shearing forces shredded my stomach walls into vulnerable straw;
My raw extremities were bereft of an outstretched finger which has always been frescoed but is now intangible to me.
Frisking the sidewalk for an anchor, my fingers ended up dog-earing leaves of grass, whose roots nourished my bone marrows like filtrated milk. Walt Whitman is why my stylus bleeds daily and I don't.
His free verses of himself grafted my limbs to my own trunk without any yoking charges; Whitman is the wanderlust of weathered hands, All who adore outdoor air walk on his open road.
His phrases shielded my brains from a blitzkrieg of rubrics which wrung awe by cutting branches of curiosity into wrongs and rights to climb; His songs boomerang like the rings of Saturn, whose Olympic range exceeds the bar of every ladder, ruler, and graduated cylinder.
I don't want to argue with anyone anymore about ethics or apologetics, even though ogling those spicy debates is fun.
No more locking horns with anybody about afterlife theories, Yes to drowning in cute kitten videos, if those activities were my only options.
At. The. Moment. is the currency I refuse to exchange. How you wait in line matters far more than how hard you try to convert me.
Your ATM behaviour takes the cake on and off camera in and out of airplanes up and down the aisles of Wal-Marts and gown vows.
Twist, roll and bend my joints! Heal my troubled body, and try to escape wallet-based therapies; pump up the volume, pop the weasel knuckles, watch your creaky wrists swing!
A catcaller's stare is a poison dart shooter, piercing casualties as casually as a barbecue skewer; blunt comments - parading as raunchy compliments - are caustic excuses a pervert abuses to trespass personal space in public; her cheeks burn with a preventable corrosion of self-esteem, while assassins brazenly dissolve outer features seam by seam.
no card deck is required to shuffle people around a vendor's stand; see, a merchant can mesmerize passer-by via sleight of scent alone; any sorcerer of flavor worth his or her salt knows how tightly noses hold the reins of the brain;
We like to think our choice of food is free of influence, yet one whiff of a choice Thai curry can flip the script; for aroma is a red cape that waves customers where it wishes while a street vendor flips the cape as Matador of our senses.
i deserve neither birth nor childhood, in fact anne frank would've donated all her diary entries to have had half of my mornings.
i expel half-life thoughts and halfway days, no more pitifully selfish fission reactions, rather share with me your gloriously expressive fusion.
my breath resists calculators and spreadsheets no division signs can sever drops of water from each other, nor can coins extinguish fountains
i cherish here and now unapologetically. i too have the best of time and space, soaking in magnitude like a max richter scale, ever racing and daring like a whizzing kite.
Its thrilling to fail in public if you can pivot your sense of self. I like to pick up the ball that writer's block deflected, that the reader's rim rejected, and dribble it like saliva squeezed under a starving cheek, then pump fake it like a shift button on a Windows 10 keyboard shifting back and forth until the scoreboard beeps.
Can one even sing a new song? Easy data access yet so hard to express anything distinctive that's also honest. I matter or I don't, which is correct? Maybe I am an atom, whose mass is too small to exert any pull. No matter, I will compose to shower light, dainty static sparks that could outlive dark, weighty clotheslines.
My daydream is to become lost in translation. That terrain of ecstasy where meaning meanders from felt sensation to pixels and pencil dust.