relief is

a weight lifted

slow

and a loss of gravity

springing you across streets

to the point you have to watch the thrust if you trip on the incoming immovable trifles

Here

in the periphery of any 

given moment -

after a pale Sun turns her back

and slips away 

unnoticed 

from American Sky -

318 million faces

 lit in dim screenglow hang inanimate,

like fake candles 

in the night-

There were

no witnesses

as the longshadows grew

and the country

turned her silicone toothed

jaws on herself

Piece by Piece

she peeled herself away

etherized at her own table

Exchanging

flesh and bone for

 the idea

of bone and flesh-

Truth

for the image Truth

which validity

shall

never penetrate

Snow crunches underfoot like the tiny

bones of birds;

Bones that are crushed by the weight

of a thousand dreams of freedom.

Flying into horizon’s burn. We bask in

the heady afterglow.

The muses call and drown us in avarice

and vice; we are baptised in the flood.

The delicate tinklings of the homeland

songs cascade

from the tiny holes that poke through the

blackness of the ruptured heartbeat.

We can’t escape the reckoning in the end.

I have 8 years to live

And I'm living them like this.

Learning a song to present for jazz

In Japanese.

Because sometimes it's easier to say

私は死んでいます

Than

I am dying.

If you switch the

Language

And put it to a

Melody

I can lie to their

Faces

And still, I'm being

Genuine.

The delights veiled by incense

Follows the pace of drums

Draped with silk and jewelery

She hides the beginnings of her nudity

On the sofa , she was like a feline

With sinful curves and velvet skin

Lonely Lotus swaying in the breeze,

trading some news with passing bees,

among an endless sea of padded lilies.

The water ripples shimmeringly,

displaced by the plunk of a seed,

wavering all that blue and green,

found on the surface, reflecting.

A very surreal conjuring,

found in eyes wandering,

along a stems sauntering

reflection, in shadow.

What I see is Topsy-Turvy,

it looks a whole lot like we

are an underworld beneath

a different kind of padded-lily...

With a dark lotus kissing the breeze,

trading the news with passing bees,

among a sister-sea of padded-lilies.

-M.E.

201601140809

The land was barren,

the sky was black.

Inside,

I was on my back,

peeking through

the gaps in your

curtains.

White flutters.

Our eyes brown.

Your sheets

fighting snow

to reflect

errant photons.

Darkness failing

to stay still.

You pull my hips.

Kneel between me.

Place my knees

about your waist.

Fall forward and

pin my arms.

I inhale the bramble

of your chest.

Lips funnel

beneath your ear.

Fill me up.

Is this

in hues of

champagne,

or just an interlude

of grandiosity?

Have I been cajoled?

Spanned like a bridge

between two

mediocre cities?

You pull me in

the way roots

suck up water

in dry earth.

Easily absorbed.

I was crushed under

their heels

into dust.

A muddy tea

flowing through

your xylem.

I want your arms,

your trunk.

Water mains break.

Wind blowing snow

on my car.

I feel like a series

of newspaper clippings

in front of a fan.

Loosely related.

Lost all my pebbles.

Luke warm.

you have such a big heart.

i bleed out for those

who can't clot.

as the absence of apathy,

i fill pockets between ribs

that aren't mine,

leaving no man behind

but myself.

vacancies seem to me

like a cry for help,

and, yes,

i am hollow-

but so is someone else-

so i spread,

and rent out my heart

like i'm not already falling apart

from my own sorrow.

boundaries are just lines to cross

and ropes to jump

so i set all or none,

double-dutch dodging my own feelings

just for fun,

yellow-taping others' wrecks before i even begin to reflect on the car crash under my skin.

is it selfless or selfish?

is it bad that i wish

i didn't feel anything at all?

if only my heart was small.

not being able to carry the weight of the world is my own personal tragedy.

if only i thought of myself

instead of always thinking about someone else.

if only i felt bad for me.