Compliments

In this studio of affection, where new voices oft relay,  
echo past endearments, all uniquely spake.  
A carousel of faces, on love’s linen laid stage.  
In each fleeting moment, a search for one visage.
Always hearing the same compliments, as if for the first time,  
familiar words from foreign lips, in a brand new rhyme.  
These praises flutter newly, like butterflies in May,  
their colors pale to memories— love in timelines far away.

How many times must I be told, of beauty, wit, and grace?
These common accolades, can't fill vacant space.
Always hearing the same compliments, as echoes in a cave,
yet each refrain makes clear to me, it's only one I crave.
In quiet nights, I ponder, under a moon that knows no rays,
how could sweet words bring pleasure?
How sweet words could bring pain.

Like rain that falls in torrents, yet leaves the earth still parched,
so do these new endearments leave me broken, lost— arched.

Always hearing the same compliments, yet hollow they remain,
A chorus in a love song, that only sings to gain.
Repetition stings me, as salt upon a wound—
it's in your irreplaceable voice,
love was truly tuned.

Love Song

I’ve been wandering, lost in this maze.
Counting mistakes. Games I used to play.
You, in the corner, eyes a hidden shade,
Tellin’ me you’re fine— soul gave you away.

I know the world's a battlefield,
we wear our scars like armor.
Let's drop these shields for a moment.

Lay on my chest, tell me my heart's beating, remind me I have a heart.
When everything's a blur, and my soul's retreating,
Echoes tell me who we are.

Time flies, we’re moving on, we’re tethered by our fears.
The past resonates like haunting cheers.
In this room, let’s make a pact, silence the noise outside.
It’s just you and me, let’s believe, we’ll survive.

And as the guitars wail, and the drums resound,
we feel our anthem on this hallowed ground.
We’re more than mistakes, leave them at the door.
Hearts have a rhythm we can’t ignore.

Lay on my chest, tell me my heart’s beating, remind me I have a heart.
When everything’s a blur, and my soul’s retreating,
Echoes tell me who we are.

Let the music play, as we find our way.
I’ll hold you close, never stray.
Just lay on my chest, let this love be our art.
You can always remind me, yes, I have a heart.

Boys

If boys could do the pretty thing
they’d be adorned with the finest rings
instead of one tying them to another.
They’d be allowed to play in their mothers’
skirts and gowns and dresses and jeweles
and then there’d be far fewer rules
of masculinity wearing them thin;
they’d wear frocks and heels and then they’d win.
Instead they’re trapped within themselves
and keep their desires high on shelves
to gather dust and rust and wither away
to the times when night comes from day.

At the Stream, Where Cattails Grow

At the stream, where cattails grow,
where frogs croak and turtles float,
hundreds of soldiers trod and tread
with full packs and lowered heads.

Their arms are tired, their backs, sore.
Their gunmental is hot, and their thoughts are no more
cheery, no longer bright, like the faces stained
beneath sweaty hair grown knotted, untamed.

At the stream, where cattails grow,
beneath the eggs laid by mosquitoes,
lay ten drowned soldiers in soggy decay,
skin long pruned, over beds of clay.

Their arms were crossed, their clothing soaked.
Their heavy wool coffins, gray like smoke,
kept them hidden in the place below
where the mosquitoes lay eggs, where the cattails grow.

Picasso’s Blues

In times when I couldn’t quiet my mind
I lost myself in Picasso’s blues.
The only thing that I could find
is the ways I failed and fall behind
melt away in those painted hues,
the greens, the yellows, and Picasso’s blues.

the Diner

Black and white
reflects neon lights,
and coffee stains the air.
A jukebox sings
of bygone things;
there’s chatter everywhere.
Vintage photos line the walls
of a time long forgotten,
and you and I
sit side by side
quiet, no discussion.

Wendy Darling

Wendy Darling, the sweetest darling, was Peter Pan’s best friend.
They’d fly so high, through the night sky, to adventures that saw no end.
From their Captain Hooks and crocodiles, they’d fly so far away
in hopes of finding joy and freedom, in a place they weren’t afraid.
It soon came time for her return, to the world she called her own,
and this she told her dearest Peter, in a soft and saddened tone.
“Peter, oh Peter, my darling Peter, you surely don’t need to cry,
I shall think of you as often as I look to the northern sky.
And every time my eyes look up, and I see that twinkling star,
I’ll think of you and thank you kindly, even though you will be far.”
And on that word she flew away, and little did she know,
while tears fell slowly down her cheeks, Peter smiled below.
And as Peter looked up at his star, he joyfully declared,
“Thank you Wendy, my darling Wendy, for the adventures which we shared.”

Among the Giants

I climbed atop the spines of giants sleeping in the Rockies,
my bare feet tickling them awake from thousand year slumbers.
The grass, long hairs against their backs, felt welcome between my toes,
as their yawning roars deafened my ears. Tears traced down in waterfalls
to wash me off their chest. I climbed atop the fallen logs, purpose in sight
and intention in my eyes, as I scaled cheek bones to reach the crown.

In the Land of Yellow Brick

She used to say,
“I’ll fly away.” This day
she hoped came quick.
“Over the rainbow,
and beyond, I’ll go,
to follow the yellow brick.

I’ll make new friends
where the brick road bends,
and after, I’ll reminisce.
By defying gravity–
that’s how I’ll finally
discover my happiness.”

“We are pained,”
her friends exclaimed
before she finally left,
but they all knew
to not be blue,
for she was not bereft.

The love they had,
though they were sad,
for her was overflowing.
She took their love
and journeyed above
the kisses they were blowing.

Chorus I

If you didn’t want to love me
if you didn’t want to care
I just wish you would’ve said somethin’
to say nothin’ isn’t fair.

For Many Years He Played the Clown

For many years he played the clown.
Moments of up and down. Down
lower where he heard no sounds.

He wrote in blood and choked on ink
cheeks no longer rosy pink
not like this, what will they think?

He’s down, he’s down,
it’s put to sound.
For many years he played the clown.

Central Park

The park was clear - the night was not - save children sledding
and sons and daughters in snowball fights, while horses pulling
carriages clopped-clopped-cloppedon steel clad hooves.
The ducks had fled their ice-topped homes, and icicles hung
of Alice’s shrooms, while Anderson sat in statuesque observance
of two bundled visitors - together, alone. The skeletal trees
cracked and whined, as the wind pushed and twisted through
their branches, and the children giggled in their sleds sliding
sideways down the snowy hills.

Top-Shelf Coping

I’ll have another and another and another and another and another
and anotha and uhnother an anothuh. Until I forget why or how I got here,
keep them coming. I already forgot where my car is.
and anuhther please?

Roses

He picked up roses on road sides
for lost souls he picked up on his side
of the bar, on late nights, in self-induced blackouts.
Because no one informed him that roses
shrivel and wither like those endeared,
he now lives discarded, forgotten
with pictures of roses his loved ones forgot
he bought to prove their worth.
And his diamond was sold and passed on,
like the souls of his lovers long gone,
to hipsters and junkies who can’t know their stories.
How sadly he chokes on his gapsers
because of his troubled breathing.
Now he no longer has roses, and
it’s three o’clock in the morning;
he’s naked, inhaling smoke, since it
reminds him of sweetness no longer his.

Untitled

Remember when. We’d do this together?
I’d grab one end, and you’d grab the other.
We’d wave and swoosh and flourish together.
Together.
We.

Accession

Kiss his lips which sting with gin. His lips
which hit, inflict this infectious affection itch.
His lips which sing this heinous sin, this
designation, which kills him within. His lips,
which in morning scintillation, submit
confessions sticky with delicious accession.
Delicate bruises kiss this skin, his
pink lips keeping this passion hostage.

Think

What’s it like for trees to breathe?
Is it like daisies in an open field?
Do they fight the others for space, for sky?
Strained, do they hurt, as they try to fly
like the fowl who visit for a second or two?
Are the boys who climb in worn-out shoes
there too long or gone too soon?

Rejuvinate

In pouring rain, a fountain sprang
to life from an empty basin.
Its arches mixed with falling drops
and rested over dehydrated rocks
to fill and cleanse the age old dust
of passerbys discarded wishes.
In awe, we looked as the once dry
pools sang out with drips. No longer shy,
the fountain danced for all to see.

Arizona

At the canyon where I thought it’d end
only to find I had strength again.
Across mountains and plains I traveled true
to run from all, but never you.
So, newly charged, I came back home,
but now I only feel more alone,
for all these new problems pile high,
so much so they’ve blacked the sky
so blue once, but now just dark.
It’s far too much for my tired heart.