Leaping in a Step

Stinking skin-
tasty radiated glow harmony
bursts in shards from a
humid youth-sung instrument.
Each note
spews a wave
foaming with haunting aesthetic;
projected onto a gravitational screen
lucidly playing itself over and over
as a backdrop
amidst the tumbling of your doings
and these sun-scraped scribblings.
So, soft voice
do you know what feet tread
so breathless and daintily upon curled toes
upon a storm-licked mind
curious with the spine of the sky?
I lay dripping concious
plain and full
propelled by two-leg motor
scraping up the dirt
to flood its flesh-paneled exterior.
The glistening on my forehead
is the fruit of ripened strides,
shimmering
from unsought words
locked in the cool sublime taste
deep in the tree-top folly and breezy smiles,
all the short-comings met by
spread arms and wide backs
while the sun opens its door
as it turns towards the face of night.
As the circle greets and rejoices
I walk away
with my shadowed musings
in the wake of bubbling springtime,
whistling for a perked ear
to catch on heat-drenched paths.

Stare of Thunderstorm Days

I tend to keep orange peels
sinking into the sinews sketched into
the dark tunnel shouldered by lips.
The fragrance of browning rinds
tends to make amends with my taste
in a fit of spawned sour heat
that my collective day-dream
finds tantalizing,
no matter the caustic tongue's touch.
The mouth's helm scurries into excitement
on such open-window white-paint high rise joy
that my heds leads me to shake
in a frantic pouncing dance
that causes my breaths to be locked
amidst a red faced quietness
capturing each forward vision
in want of some sweet fruit,
no matter the melancholic roots.

Oh, to Be the Dirt

Have I not sharpened
my tongue on moss-stricken rocks
while resting my head in
the very naked day that
broke the chains
eating away at my dirty fat
as I wandered heavily
in the sweat stung strength of spring?
This gifted stanza wrought gab,
rising from folded paper wounds
screaming of shadowy names,
has battered me on my atmospheric back
closing in the curtains of a the day
like dark-dressed stage hands
about to set scene
for the most wonder-filled play of them all.
I cut the membrane in front of me
with this pointed pen
and aforementioned tonuge
to let the blood of marvels
run jagged through my eyes.
I puncture the veil
of this doomed two-eyed vision
with the sharp edges of the notebook,
and I slash and dice my limbs
to let them fall on the jeweled earth
in hope that they too
will crumble like the leaves
and become the better
part of my descriptions.

Sleep is Yelling in this One-Half Room

My sleep has been yelling.
Put this hoarse cry to rest
so I may rest my head
to do the work of a poet.
Kiss the salt turned colonnade
with the wet lips
of my genealogy.
I speak to you
night time musings,
you who touch my cheek
with a pounding chant
groaning its rhythm
in the cranial halls of my pillow.
Swirling on top of the white walls
are the lost lingering words
that never dared to paint
my automatic musings onto
the milky sweat gleaned canvas
I joyously press my hand against
on murky window evenings.
The eyes cannot close still,
this room is one-half of itself
the pages of the inky receiver
lay open and off past the white lines of roads
distant from the blanks between sentences
you stand over my passions wake
rearranging the fate of logic
so my young legs may grow
for then I may see you
even past great emerald mountains,
over battered seas of dry sleep.
With this bone cradled lighthouse in mind,
I find my away across this sea
onto a full comfort
that quells the screams of
this one-half room.

Absurdity's Grace

This is how the vision
did dare subside
in a flashing pregnant moment:

You booming shelves of clouds,
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky burning light
deeply entrenched with the mist of a sublime glow
I gaze at you-
proudly freeing the instinctive infant
in times so fearfully and falsely set aside.
Stormy visions have lately plagued the skin,
boils of a pensive Eastern flea
scorn these caged hours
as the bed finds itself being the raft
amidst cancerous day-distraught times.
With a bruised neck I
crank my bones to shift
my gaze towards the seashore-grey
formation dancing in evenings halls,
as a few well-dressed thoughts gather themselves
to play the limber weather-wearers
a few festive songs.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes
begins to resent itself
as the evening image dissolves behind hills
-I tug and grab at my jacket to
hurl myself over my fright;
the great sky sculpture
(all too telling of these days)
begins to wither hopelessly
as the darkness begins to pull itself
from the rain-day's emaciated sunlight cycle.

As the heavy hanging grays and dirty pales
heavily drift
into the deep haze of blue and orange,
as it all collides
with the poet's veil,
I let my hand off my collar
breathing in a smile of
atonement
for the dreadful hauntings of melancholy
have found themselves captured in
the waking manifestation of sight.