and suffocation was

It was August.
No, I’m still too young
to have kids have them
stuck javelin in abdomen in
esophagus nobody speaks one
word stays with me, future,
you want me
to create something?
It is not a child-
like object, soft and fluid
and malleable, it will
not turn out like you had
imagined it in your multiple
test runs in your head over
a cup of coffee, no, no it
is not relatable, it is
not you, not me, creation
is not like that at all.
not an uplifting chorus upon
salted rock shores
It is just about the one day
I whispered “I don’t want to
say this but I feel that I
can” and the world melted, the
words melded together into
one long entourage of has-beens
and regrettable metaphorical
needs, nobody can respond
at, this time. I should have
mailed it in the post-
apocalyptic ink and pen
matt-er-off-act methodology
that you could better under-
stand me up again and
ignore blatant jump in
ice pond suffocations like
air bubbles like stars under the
walking path above you
seek me under there but you
will not speak if I will
not hear you

will I be the same


tomorrow?

things I say in Dreams

I walk around with a tape
measure running out
of my mouth
my words are carefully
spilled over the tick marks
counted syllables flapping behind
my back, never a run-on
sentence uttered or I would
trip like a protagonist over
sweet ballads of self-image
dribbling across the yellow lines
dividing the road, untied
themselves from my lips to
wave banners from a moonlit
flagpole growing from the end
of my thoughts to stretch over
a scape only found in Apollo’s
back pocket