i’m losing myself in your hazel portal.
fingernails, the endless target of fear, blunting the intensity of your golden-gate conscious,
bear enough of this weight to mortalize Atlas.
the pathetic, monotone static in my head is a train barreling towards an unfinished bridge,
my cynicism a pew destroyed by debris,
my outstretched hand a burning bible.
in my back-alley existence,
you are an ocean-wide coral reef of altruism and hope,
beaming with enough passionate hue to feed the starving.
i am twiddling my sprained, charcoal thumbs out of rhythm,
selfishly consuming your complexion like a leech
“She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.”
the lava-blended departure of the sun is not metaphysics,
but a pinpoint target into human hearts,
both empirical and whimsical,
both light out of my ultraviolet perspective and the asphalt hurricanes of my cortex
bursting to the window,
she battled the nimbostratus with 7.4 billion souls on her solar-flaring side;
I sat idly by, desperately attempting to cool my tea and fight the demons on my shoulder.
The battle was a chainsaw pitted against a watermelon,
(is the deck stacked or
are my shoulders only temporarily
despite cinder block extremities,
my skin is still more mesh than concrete;
these summer nights were meant for picket signs
and bare feet.
as to perceive image without light,
I swam against a salty, magnificent current.
the anatomy of your enamel is a gregarious combination of sunshine and pouring sweat.
Queen Anne’s Lace is lining Prom West like a gospel chorus,
and your violets are screaming an unheard passion.
my hideous self-deprecation is a mute, static television signal in your ever-glowing radius-
a presence growing slowly and humbly, yet erupting all at once like a plentiful vegetable garden-
tomato plants, rosemary, and your Grand Canyon-eyes of brightness in full bloom.
it is here where your adjectives become potent antihistamines,
where these action words are soft fingernails on my scalp,
where your histories write textbooks of moon cycles and tiger lilies.
your palms on my chest and lips on the soft spots,
your amber irises are the key to the city.
I will dance with this infinity-
with each crack in your palm and rose in your heart,
under these golden, Northern streetlights for
the rest of time.
dreams are elusive ghosts,
but every once in awhile I will find my the dimples of my back grazing the frigid Hudson,
the treetops seeping into my grayscale skin like lotion.
it is within this reality that I may briefly forget the constant screech of your tired bones,
a relief beyond the sensation of any orgasm or chocolate cupcake.
reality is not such a simple plot-line.
rather than spin you on the dance floor like a lavender goddess,
i’m punishing my liver for existing.
this is where my naïve psyche meets the memory of your golden shoulder-bones-
where my broken, bitten-down fingers feel your unyielding flexibility and stark vulnerability like sandpaper Hallmark cards.
it is a true talent to seep the modest current without searching beyond the horizon-
for the air feels like tar without anyone to breathe it with.
this sultry tease of summer,
skin peeling off of leather and cracked heels on the dashboard,
blisters on feet panicking like geysers,
this oxygen resembling cinder-blocks
slightly more carefree –
imprints of crinkled toes never left the passenger seat.
the bags in your eyes were unmined emeralds-
my bones shared strict resemblance to anvils,
and I was too fucking high to inject these sullen thrills.
the new car smell never comes back.
my stomach is no longer a carnival at the sight of freshly opened eyelids, only a dimly-lit, mold-infested dungeon.
may I begin the Spring cleaning by sweeping your eyelashes off of the leather?
or shall I leave your grace,
along dried crumbs off screaming green dopamine,
in the creases?
passionate visions of my chest smashing through the windshield like a steel-framed freight train,
fueled by every damning item on this laundry list of self-inadequacy.
salvage yards cannot simply exist as ubiquitous rows of lost souls
there must be hope for the hot season to melt away the rose-tinted skidmarks burning my irises.
Sunday newspapers continue to gather fragile New England snow on the curbside,
a stomping ground for purgatory, the home for these roller-coaster thoughts.
i’m not much for small talk.
my clothes are always inside out and i’m raging losing battles with my steel-toed tear ducts-
grunting is a masculine expression,
and so i’ll lift weights,
but gain no strength, just aches of all of the intimacy that I’ve never allowed myself to emit or absorb.
a soggy sponge,
a rotten oak stump,
a childhood meal coming back up over the fists and the heaves.
the alcohol binds the seams;
tear ducts are dams
and everyone needs a method of additional reinforcement.
numbness and empty-mindedness aside, I’m
still a make-shift dumpster lover,
hardwired, disassociated hinge-sucker.
too sensitive to open the window blinds or morning newspaper,
there is still no muscle definition, only
every seed is a perennial flower-
roots embedded within aortic dreams;
bursting dandelions are just defined weeds.
we’re not compost,
just pawns of propagated watering cans,
soaking in messages so malevolent that
eugenics becomes an assimilation heuristic.
seven-billion shells in
six summers of no shade,
six winters of dancing with devils and self hate,
six seasons of victims hating the victims just the same.
sharing a garden-bed to enrich each other’s soil,
fallen petals call for tearful hymns,
not a body count.