Palm

won the game of cat and mouse,
too bad cause now it's over.
threesome on the mirror
for your pleasure, but i'm staying sober.
if i've interfered, you've made it clear.
sex driven, hidden, beneath your chin hair.
seven's a good number, but it's been a bad week.
ate a dinner roll just to try to ease the stomach-
pain-i-know your bloodshot eyes may not realize.
tenderize the uncomfortable confrontations with
denial-even tore the seems stitched through your demise.
twelve at night, gas light, time to pull over.

winter rabbit ii.

the fog, which had embraced the blushing cheeks of this green city so intimately, finally lifted. and in it's absence came the misty haze of tires on wet pavement. the dulled mess of a palette above dripped sloppily across the tired rooftops as they hid the city's numbed hands and personalities behind stucco walls and insulation.
i hid it under my breath..
wandering through the slick ally ways of your retinas stirred the familiar smell of newly fallen rain and dead leaves that emanated through the cracks of the uneven pavement. thick golden espresso beat against the side of a paper cup, like a bass drum, and sloshed out of the lid, joining the company of the sky's secretions beside my uneven stride. the scent lingered and fell, shattering my reality into shards of broken thoughts. i looked down and saw the ripples in my reflection distort the clouds behind me. my backdrop. my makeshift existence. i stepped through it, disturbing the mirrored image. the grey tones lifted from the earth only to descend back to the firm, unforgiving surface from which they came. i watched the world around me fray at the seems. i focused on the corroding shorelines of your temper. pounding, pulsating, quaking and quivering. shake, surge, swell and succumb. the shimmering cadence of regret lining our dulled dispositions. a blurred skyline reflected off your telescope eyes. you bit the edge of your brittle wind-stricken fingers before raising them to adjust the frame in which you see the world. not knowing what else to do, i picked at the blue rubber that gripped the metal frame of our park bench. tell me your troubles, and i'll whisper my worries. bitch, complain, vent and let loose. i look down when i can't think of anything clever to tell you; looking up simply to nod my head to the beat of your fingertips as they drum softly against the walls of my feeble attempts of taking care of you.
"since it's green, let the leaves steep for no more than four minutes, otherwise the taste becomes bitter." i don't tell you this because who am i to decide your preferred taste. and i no longer know what tickles your taste buds and chapped lips. and i no longer know how the textures of color bend and fold against the sharp edges of your swagger. and i no longer know the rhythm in your footsteps, and the beat of your weak heart. but then again, not much has changed.
my words hit your pale forehead and slither down your nose. a crooked smile and chuckle cut through my paranoia.
i am having a conversation with your time limit. and i look at you, looking down, picking at the blue rubber that hugs the frame of the bench with remorse.

you will respond with an ever so quirky remark, because you have subscribed to my mind. i'll let technology be my scapegoat. you will depend on me and i will let you down, and i will build it up just so we can watch it fall. we will have many days of second hand hell and speak of what we once held on to so dearly. and at the end of it all, we'll return to the lives we have built in each other's absence. and i'll watch as you walk back to the smell of motor oil and changes in diet. and you will sit at your screen, pick apart my scattered phrases and correct my flaws, for that is what we do.
yes it's about you.
no i don't think you'll misunderstand.
can you hear me over the scratching of tires on wet pavement?
i don't know.

city limits

sitting with a burning anticipation. ready to run for it. the thought had been lingering in her mind for some months now. some years. but more so in some days. the last visit to a city she will come to love so fondly, left her paralyzed and breathless in suspense of the life she could live. looking over the lights and imagining. reaching for the moon, and hoping to god when she falls she lands in the flesh of the city. walking through the streets, driving through the rapids of tourists and la locals. seeing the footprints of a life once had. treading dirt on the dreams she held on to for so long, along with the nightmares. brushing off the burning of the city. the burning of her infatuations. in life, in living, in love. turning each corner, hoping for a rainstorm. the fireworks, the sunset, the thunder; they had never left her thoughts. bringing her back to reality as the intestines of her bag spilled out onto the worn cement beneath her crooked feet. inbox full. brain full. stomach empty. life seemed empty, so close to her future, and so close to her past. the awkward life she lived, the suburban prison. she was ready to escape to new, more exciting opportunities, and to fond, bittersweet memories. this agnostic young girl knew more about herself than expected. her heaven and hell lingered far too close to one another. "purgatory city limits". and to this day, each bite into the flesh of an innocent, crawling down her throat to rest in her stomach to jab and pinch later on, will still be influenced by the nostalgia of san francisco. she smoked lucky strike brand, with some marlboro and camel on the side, until they took them from her local liquor stores and gas stations. and now she settled for her side brands. but her lucky strikes never left her dreams. because killing the night with wine, walt disney, and peach flavored tobacco was somethin' else. because the beauty of the atmosphere was so apparent. because with him, "love was rainfall". and those words would haunt the corners of her mind for years. like a feared beast, waiting under her bed under piles of old notes and stuffed animals. lurking in her closet in old photo albums and tattered, stamped packages. waiting until everyone is asleep, creeping out of the wee hours of the morning to line her clouds with silver. the beast crawled from the pixels of her computer screen. reaching and groping at her throat and chest; more so her mind. thoughts set, ocular fixation, intoxication. and as the smell of oranges filled her room, the addiction swelled.. fuck i need a cigarette.

burgundy

a boy sits in his pool of ego, draped in a burgundy veil. he speaks with charm and his teeth are dripping with false quotes and morals. the glasses framing his beautiful eyes seem to hide what one should truly see within this individual. and without hesitation, extravagantly phrased, bitter sweet sentences pour from his nicotine stained lungs. his throat box battered to pieces from illness and passion filled arguments. and as he slips witty smirks and clever comments through the lips he uses to poison his victims, his hands firmly grip his arrogance, a child gripping a blanket. other people's creativity strewn across his walls. other people's hopes and dreams come crawling and scraping down the egg shell white paint. eyes darting, stomach growling, lungs burning, heart pumping. and as the words flow from his throat, of how he dreams of her nicotine kisses, and mystereous eyes, and how he would love to spend a day in her embrace, his mind wanders through the forests of women he had come to know all too well. oh, but how her head fit so well against his collar bone and chest. his smile tells secrets no one should know, but only to those who care to take a closer look. the sky pours and all he can do is pick leaves off a tree. but she loved the way they smelled, she loved the way he smelled. he coughs up old smoke and more lies. the illness eating away at his lungs, and heart. eating away at her heart, but who's to say which endeared others more. the skies turn grey, the leaves fall, and she falls.

llamas, oranges & l.s.c.

here i am.. again.. greeting the sun with open arms. actually.. tonight is different (or shall i say morning). despite my usual apathetic disposition towards my insomnia, i'm finding myself hating it altogether. i may even go as far as to say that i loathe the very core of the beast. then again, loathe is a strong word. perhaps too strong. for those of you who can relate to these, usually enoyable, sleepless hours, will also relate to how arduous the task of actually sleeping is. yes, i know i'm talking all crazy hoo-diddle, but listen, it's five something in the morning, and quite frankly, i really don't give a shit right now. back to the topic. there will always be something that calms my restlessness, whatever it may be; however, it seems as though tonight, being somewhat unique in it's own way.... i guess. ("you have a lovely soul" a.d.d. much? ) seems to have no relief.. to my knowledge. the usuals: the sound of fish tank filters, the slight murmur of television stars, begging to be heard, yet still, are only used as a deliverance from these lost dreams.. maybe some mellow tunes, also at a whisper..... even more so, a lover's heart beat. and as i lay on a make-shift bed in the computer/music room, with many options open to use as my lullaby, i find no release. and this, being quite an astonishment, troubles me deeply. they usually work, when most needed. i lay there, a deep "thump, thump-thump, thump-thump" echos through my ears. a usual melody that would put me into a deep slumber. and tonight... with absolutely no vindication for this restlessness whatsoever, i sit here, talking to you. and anyone who gives a damn. i almost spelled it "damb". and as i tried so hard to keep my eyes shut, squeezing my eye lids with all my might, i just couldn't find myself enjoying the same bliss as the individual beside me. you shouldn't have to try so hard to get forty winks in before 6:00AM.. and right now, i shouldn't be on my computer. nonetheless, that is how it is, and that is where i am. (and i know i change tenses, i'm a time traveler, so what.) wanting to sleep so badly, to just stay in these repetitious, yet, beautiful dreams, anknowing, it just won't happen. it's nearly heart breaking. it's an odd feeling. especially being at such a late time period. perhaps it's the surface in which i'm laying on. being too lazy to fix the bed up, we tossed sheets and comforters on the ground below us. perhaps the ground is too flat, too consistent. i would prefer it be more forgiving to the weight and shape of my body. to flow with each toss and turn throughout the night. to be different as you move you legs beneath the bed coveres. mmm... i would hardly call that a justified reasoning at all. on the other hand, as i lower my computer screen, and crawl back into the blankets piled on one another, i know eventually i will drift into slumber, with no worries, thoughts, stress, queries... only rest. a soothing extrication consisting of llamas, oranges, and lucky strike brand cigarettes.