And you said,

"What if he's deceased?

At least you'll know."

Rushing off to work.

My mind

flashed a full scene

of southern sunlight

on my face.

You shut the front door,

and

I sat in front of a tombstone.

Maybe in Kentucky.

Not reading a name,

or anything engraved

Just thinking of what I might say

to my father.

Neutral thoughts

shake bitterness

from an unshaken hand;

and I peer into a tombstone,

same as I might peer

into the void of someone's eyes.

"All my life I have seen you in the mirror.

Never have I seen your face.

Do you know what one picture

could have done,

for one man-

Your Son!"

Open the bedroom door and her legs are sprawled atop the thermostat sheets of sweat. I'd swear if she wasn't asleep her naked figure unaware would be my natural invitation to sink down my teeth into her strawberry cheesecake youth backside. Awake she might churn a honeydew grin and lash between smiles my ego with her innocent tongue.

George Washington

has never lied to me.

Not so sure bout

that cherry tree,

but when it comes to flippin a coin

he always get to the point.

Toss up

and

catch the wisdom bestowed.

Simply call heads

"Yes" or tails

"No".

George Washington never

flipped a coin

with me in mind though.

Why doesn't he ever ask me;

"Should we go to the bar later?".

Expresso or gas

paper no-

don't worry George,

no plastic on me.

Just infinite change in my

pocket.

My lips are so big...

that if stranded on a deserted island

I could fashion a two person raft

and float back to civilization.

Eventually dolphins would help

take me back to shore.

My lips are so big,

they surprise me sometimes

or more often making me stutter

when I'm trying to say something intelligent,

because they get in the way of each other

and then split happens.

My lips are so big...

that my teeth actually fight back

when I'm chewing mouthfuls of food

because I'm hungry.

Drawing blood always in the same fucking spot,

two or three times in a row.

My lips are so big,

They share some space in my memory banks;

like when grandma was baking chocolate chip cookies and says to me taking off her oven mitts,

"The bigger the lips the better the kisser.".

I'd always wondered about that.

I've yet to find my match.

Someone could literally take a nap on my lips, and use the bottom one for a blanket.

If that was the case,

I would have been in kiss'n contests all over the neighborhood.

I'd be kiss'n Angelina Jolie by now.

She'd be knocking on my door,

and we could buy chap stick together.

My lips are so big,

I take taxes out on them.

My lips are so big,

I don't even use a towel

when I get out of the shower.

They absorb all the water.

My lips are so big,

I'm still receiving messages

from the Voyager Space Craft.

My lips are so big,

I give flying squirrels lessons

on how to fly farther

from tree to tree.

My lips are so big,

if I said something now

it'd take a hour before

it came out of my mouth.

My lips are so big,

Ripley's believe it or not

couldn't fucking believe it.

My lips are so big,

they get stuck in the vacuum.

My lips are so big,

they open automatic doors for me.

My lips are so big,

if I were a burn victim

doctors would take skin

from my lips

and graph it to my ass.

My lips are so big,

that when God was handing out

facial features, he said,

"Ripley isn't even gonna believe

this shit!"

I can hear it like

a gentle swerve

of cold wind

sweeping along the side of the house.

I like the shadows

cast from the books leaning

on the nightstand.

There isn't a voice

from the authors;

just a scratching sound

of interests uninitiated-

Mine.

And to me the novel stays closed

in my hands. Bookmarks lost

in the binding of life

not imitating art.

On a single piece of paper

the world can lay flat,

and from one corner to the other

someone could be listening,

and someone

could be storytelling.

Its all in invisible ink

written in the womb.

Literature is never reborn

but is constantly reinventing itself

in audible sounds-

like the scratching

and meddling clamor

of a quiet evening

pushing against

the side of the house.

How hurtful it must sound,

Those words-

"I love you

But I'm not in love with you,

Not like I used to be."

I wouldn't know

And for the sake of love

That I may never have to

Hear them myself,

On a day so random

And in harmonic in clockwork,

For the hands to fall

Right off the calender itself.

But I have watched a thousand tears fall

In the wake of my thunder,

And I swear I've shed

Mine in severe solitude

Over the long stormy years

of my life.

For a man's nonsense

Is merely quiet

and sobering

In the death of

The landscape

Of a wholehearted woman...

I have said

And now feel

The dreg of being so bold

In my own heart.

I should be shamed,

More then just a finger

Shaken in my face

Simply for my half truths.

I have

Not said

The words I've chosen not

To say.

"There is another that I love,

And that is something you cannot

Change."

Yet,

I cannot help

At all the sting of such

A horrid phase

To stab the world with

While wielding the handle.

It never feels fair.

Never does the downside

To love seems fair to either party.

Drenching.

How timely the rain

Might speak upon

This hour of de-compartmentalizing.

How menacing

At all the rain should

Speak in cool

And rolling claps,

And flashes,

Of the brain

squeezing wrinkles

Into it's soft

Inanimate tissue

No slight of punctuation

Can un-sheath me

To let trickle

from my own longing for another.

Except her own words

longing for me,

Should I stutter

Or take a second glance after

snapping another's heart

in two.

I believe solace

Will be speedy

In the dance of the one

I've jaded.

A sort of backhanded wish I know,

If ever the storm might pass

Over us both As we part ways

For a clear open sky to build

Between us.

Alabama,

because Chris didn't elaborate

         falsely.

Gosh, he's

incompetent.

    Just keep loving

mislead needy obnoxious

people,

quiets restless souls

      temporarily.

Until vision warrant

X-ray yerning

 Zephyr.

I've been wondering what's missing. It's not Regan, and it's not Bruce Springsteen, or Public Enemy, or Madonna, or Michael Jackson, or Nintendo.

It's strange how expression can be ground down to just mere emoticons, and commercials that suddenly lose the plot when you realize it's talking about herpes. I'm really touched by Matthew McConaughey's perspective on driving.....#Infinity

And it seems I'm always re-writing these advertisements while in my head thinking, "who writes this crap?".

in the meantime, I feel like some sort of unconscious observer. as #s have devoured commas and periods like the original Pac Mann ate pellets.

people don't actually talk like this. And I certainly remember the # being a symbol for one's telephone number. As in,

" Hey girl, lemme get yo # (hashtag) number"

I imagine the use of a # would be fair if it played into some sort of riddle. Such as,

"That motherfucker, in the neon green leotard who kinda pisses Batman off just blew up the question mark factory #TheRiddler"

It'd be funny if the 1960's Batman had a rival wearing a shit brown jumpsuit with a # on his chest. I can just hear Robin now,

"HOLY HARRY HOTDOGS, BATMAN! Wtf was that guy?"

Batman, "#".

I watch on the book of face how Merricans devour our own language, and shit out half enunciated syllables to communicate feelings, and symbols for two letters words, that already exist, example:

"When you be @ Beã's & she be cra-cra."

Those memes just goes right through me, like Taco Bell is Mexican food... And I love some Taco Bell.

Yet, there is no one that can be credited with this tiny little recreation; the once binary over night trend sensation into a colloquial short cut. Let's just say the "#" is just starting to come out of it's shell, because half of the kids that use it today haven't played a tic tac toe game since the 80's.

I can't wait

to see that little pistol

she always keeps on her hip.

She could

put the gun to my head,

and I swear

it never tasted so good

to have my nose nuzzled next to a tattooed revolver on her pelvic bone.

Every woman should have but only one should carry so well.

And if it was a real gun,

I'd let her hold it there.

Against my temple,

as close she wants.

She could slide it into my brain,

and I could load it. I'd let her shoot me

over

and

over and,

if the hammer

doesn't tap the primer,

I'd have died betwixt

her thighs.

Bury me there.

I would never have to beg for anything else, save for the sake of

begging. If she asks-

I'd beg her for it.

scars all over her

    arms and legs

she carries them so well

i forget sometimes that i know they're

             there

when she reaches for me

         and i glance

the lamp shade tilts with my eyes

revealing a hundred solutions neatly healed on the softest parts of her skin.

a trillion alternate endings

        of how pens don't bleed like razors

and I tell her that I understand

because I believe that they do

each syllable starts with a prick

each line pouring it's heart out

stanzas spaced just in case

there needs to be another incision

and there always is

hidden somewhere

within the pages