acraein

And in this cold desert I love.

And if I lived on,

When this cowboy moon shone,

I’ll dip my toes in cadence flows.

–

Or if in that blue moon I shouted

of a glass beach and tap shoes,

Oh, I’d shout words that movies use.

I’d rally all those goosebump crews.

–

And when you’re cold,

If I lock eyes

when fortune’s thin

I’ll dip my smiles around you.

–

Or in the spirit of the open books I flaunted,

in the harvest hall I’ll tear my shirt.

Buttons scatter in the dirt.

My words they shoot not coy not curt.

–

Oh if I spoke my mind not with a glance,

But with some interesting and badass dance.

Oh but when I speak at all,

I say, I say, I say it all.

I’m sorry I sang in an angry tone.

Your eyes low, then rose.

You spoke your prose and ran.

Sister chasing brother in the snow.

I’m sorry I see me in you,

Our life’s mistakes ablaze,

Upon advice we make them anyways,

Biting off more than we can chew.

I hope you know I want what’s best

For your life and mine tied at the breast.

I hope I know what’s best for you.

I can’t have you in this floor I’ve fallen through.

Same pitfalls and floodgates,

Watch our traps amalgamate.

I’m sorry I love you,

The driving force in our parting ways.

That and my striving for improvement craze.

And dissecting how our shadows grew.

And if I looked up and didn’t see some dumb ball,

I’d be sad?

I don’t see why.

A reliance on a state of mind.

A weakness given to the whims

of chemical receptacles

whose preferences consist of settings

where light meets darkness.

Contrasting visual stimulus.

An iron fist is the way to go,

though.

A series of synapse manips.

Maximizing delta utils.

Flux. I’m riding dives and dips.

Any other way is futile.

And doing this I snap the cold.

From a rush of love or joy or flirty retorts

to scraping kitchen mold

or itemizing expense reports.

No longer waxing on that sickle circle

to provide me with that pale shade.

My time too valuable for trade,

and my heart has never waned invisible.

Do they, when the sound is thin

Fawn about the chaise in the room?

Words that I couldn’t say,

Oh, I will paint you things.

Today, when my lips were thin,

Palmed my life around, golden hue.

Thread pulled, usual way,

Oh, I’m a saint, a king.

Do I, in retirement

Shuffle toed ‘tween nick naming the commune

And remember every choice I made?

Is remembering the better way?

My age, pulled like a string

Lost body, it’s a sound plucked tune

Meandering across space

Oh, I’m the fish of Kings.

Everyone knows the time’s run out.

Braced knees on the downhill jaunt.

Timid toes too scared to want.

I see the golden scales, the feather.

I know I’m heavier.

Braced claws with teething pain.

Careful canine rupture game.

Climbing ivy, driving posts,

Scuttle scrawling through incense smoke.

Kettle’s hot – embrace it anyways.

Sail’s taut – riding ocean flames.

When I looked up I knew the moon,

Just as if it asked me to.

This simple orb string spun of glass,

The eye inside a photograph.

 
And in my den I dumbly stood,

Smelling every scent from childhood.

The crisp air from a leaf orange pile,

The nectar floods in apple aisles.

 
I looked again and saw the sun,

A symbol for work to be done.

A time to set aside these thoughts,

I’ll burn the wick, I’ll burn it hot.

 
Return to sill after the day,

To find the clouds clouding the way.

A loon I long the moon to see,

The dream I find’s indifferent to me.