snow storm

warm sunlight
turns porcelain into
liquid gold,
and blue eyes
into stormy seas
where waves crash,
whirlpools flourish
and lightning turns saline crystals
into pigments of light.

it's similar.
skipping vision and
no sense for
anything maybe at all.
but carousels in your head
(constant clockwise turns and
circus music)
and an entire body under the curse
of sleep
is different.

ask for marks you will
eventually cover up
and paint nails
you use for dirty work

you are a giant body of
waste.
70% water
and waste.

you skim your eyes over
the words,
and opaque black silk
settles on your shoulders

but you figure
do not fret,
the silk is really
red
when you wipe the film
from your eyes.

bug bites

the exchange:
smiling mouths
the same shaped lips
same color and glaze.
emitting laughs and satire,
while hands pass forth
handles;
clear and
plastic.

in the dark,
footsteps slick against pavement.
lack of light and
additions of it in
small tubes of energy
and orange glows

chemical burn,
technically.
menacing in percentiles
of ones or maybe
twos.
but when stirred into blood
in a crystal cup with a
glass stirrer,
percentiles of
fifties and even eighties.

if there was sunlight,
maybe the liquid
and crystal would
refract the light in both your eyes.

nerves convulsing
yet numb.

the ultimate
is like drinking water
until you believe you're about to
explode.

intense and foolish
yet
perfect and humorous.


and for the first time in maybe
forever
the sun stares into your car
kisses your eyelids
and wakes you.

paper weights

the main interstate
and flimsy branches of intersections
dyed blue
race under transparent skin

while table tops
plastic and not wood
wielded by
fake knights
carve a dirt path
through arms

dig a hole
cut through the gravel
sit and stare at the top
that is now just a pinprick
a ghost of what it once was
6 feet wide.

you no longer see
the blue sky

thefuck?

plastic planes
paper planes
fighter jets and
Boeing 474s

sat atop a
ceiling fan
and spun
spun spun
around.

words only come when life sucks

at the point
between inhaling
and swallowing
his taste lingers
on the back of your tongue
and you could taste for
weeks to come

hot

the skin of your arms
is hot enough
to melt ice in
seconds

nh89erhdfih

maybe once you learn
the technical
and you don't just know
the feel
your viewpoint changes

the fog
the smoke
feels as if its free flowing
underneath your skin
in a good, not bad
way

things are changing and have changed
and again,
good and not bad.
the wind changed directions
and is now flowing against your sails
to guide you
toward goals and what you want

so much noise and so much heat
it all pounds down
and sheds you of impure
dead skin.
skin that used to soil you
ruin you.
it's now brushed off
and the new is shining out

words don't come anymore
not as much

they should the way
you are disconnected

your mind was dry when you
started.
and now it has
disintegrated.