I felt the coolness of the water replace the heat of my body; I had been floating along for hours.

I felt the water wrap around the tips of my fingers as I let them dip in; I pushed my hand under until it hugged my wrist.

I felt the sun on my neck and shoulders, and the faint sizzle of my skin browning.

I felt like it didn’t matter than I didn’t have money, that I wasn’t making money, that I didn’t want money.

I felt like slipping underneath the current and sleeping there forever.

Red Carpet fore ambitious lexicon.

Inundated Petri dish of tidy letters and crafted lines.

Deliberate, unspoken words lack unease

                                                          - nerve to muscle.

Loquacious strangers coalesced.

Garden in bloom, successor of Eden.

Ubiquitous, blank lines voracious for keystrokes.

Pedestal beneath text and tongue

                                                 - unrestricted.

Reservoir of insatiable thoughts through fingertips.

Lying petrified beneath pine,

eyes wide as life-

frozen in time.

Had I heard you once-

scurry limb to branch,

rustle needles brown?

Extinguished

on adjacent asphalt

I left you to lie and

forgotten upon return.

Another, alike-

outside window tall,

eyes wide as life.

Frozen

though not in motion,

forgotten, misplaced in

my mind, only to remember

just now.

Ode to squirrel.

Ode to bird.

Irony looks through the glass door as you realize you have locked it behind you.

So many times you have been on the other side of the scratched glass, determining Irony’s next entry.

You lie on your back, just as Irony would, kicking your feet into the air.

Next, you will dig holes to nowhere, anywhere, just like Irony does.

You may curl up in that spot underneath your own
window to absorb the
sun and sleep, the way Irony will.

Irony is a black patch around a left eye,
a pink tummy and some polka dots.

You stare at the glass, but Irony isn’t moving. So, you don’t see her like she sees you.

Chest tight,

lacking contraction

or circulation.

Palms and pits

damp and humid.

Forceful breaths

beneath a rapid heart

and heavy lungs.

Arbitrary and benign,

internalizing what isn't.

I wanted to sit on the porch of your old house, and drink beers with you until the moon lit the streets.

I wanted to climb onto the roof with you, and watch the fireworks burst in the glaze of your eyes.

I wanted to lay in your bed at stare up at your ceiling with you; stare at the Earth at Night and Africa, not South America.

I wanted to stand in the fire with you, on top of that old door, holding your hand.

I wanted to walk across the sand through the rain with you, plunge into puddles feet first, and breath the other side of the world.

Loss of color and general form.

Stretched, stressed, and strangely comforting;

despite appearances, remarkably trustworthy.

Wrapped in stringed laces once white,

sizes seemingly too small.

This is the perfect state of mind to do exactly what I in tend to do

in this chair, in side of my room, in side of this house

that was built a long this street, my desk sits parallel.

I can see out of my window, the house a cross the street-

three- four- five- seven- does n’t have any people.

At least not right now, but that will change- like this one once did

when our things came here.

Particles float in the air like; my room mates cat ’s hair

until it sticks to every one and all things, eternal.

It collects in all places; even on the micro wave.

Not to mention, the holes in the back yard, where do they go?

What is she doing? What ’s on her mind?

I have watched her do it, from the glass of the back door.

A fury of dirt, and her white turns to brown.

My desk, in my room, has a crack in the top.

It’s hard to write with out some thing to cover it.

I painted it red because that ’s the color I had.

Before that, it smelled like cigarettes, like it ’s old residence.

Or, the dog pee we found at the base of the hutch.

We can sand it, and stain it, and no one will know.

Only I will, and he will, and he, and he, too.

The shower curtain won ’t slide, and the handle wo n’t latch,

and the drawers get stuck, and the floors are cracked

in that one spot, just on the edge, where I like to stand.

I like the way they break under neath my socks.

I visit them when I leave my room,

with my windows, and my desk that I can ’t write on, so

why is it here?

There ’s a sill, and a shelf, and a lamp, and a rose

in a blue vase - next to the clock that projects to my

ceiling that I watch late at night, or when I wake up too

early; but I doze off just in time for my alarm to remind me

that it is to day, or to morrow, or when ever we are,

for ever in your consult, my ubiquitous god.

Adulthood upgrade

from a bean filled Christmas penguin

to a breathing in my ear, sniffing my neck, licking my face, stepping on the same face to wake me, black eye spot staring me down, matching polka dots sprinkled beneath white hairs.

I love the way she smells and her warmth when we cuddle. My sleeping partner, driving companion, fur covered friend with some serious dance moves.

Why would I get a dog and not make her my best friend?

The weight of the world,

the weight of my world;

the bottom of my shower,

the floor board of my Corolla,

the soles of my shoes.

Home to lint and calluses,

funk and old nail polish.

Forgotten.

Sore.

Neglected.