If you must fly away,
while I am laying still I will stand,
and break down walls.
I will run after you.
I will always fly after you.

A Mission of Our Eyes

We embarked on a mission of our eyes,
To find security within the pages of stories so calmly told.
As if each letter provided us with a personal inventory.
Speaking of the correctness within our wrongs.
Trying to convince us to stay, and as if fingers were plastered to the binding of this book,
I couldn't shut it, nor look away.
Brows lifted at concepts misunderstood and shuddered motions when read of our own instability.
Only green lights are shining.
Pushing us to move forward on our mission.
Crying at us, screaming.
Trying to emerge our bodies from empty buildings and crowded minds.   

E.e Cummings

"It may not always be so, and I say

That if your lips, which i have loved, should touch

Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

His heart, as mine in time not far away

If on another's face your sweet hair lay

In such a silence as I know, or such

Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch

Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay

If this should be, I say if this should be

You of my heart, send me a little word

That I may go unto her, and take her hands

Saying, accept all happiness from me

Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird

Sing terribly afar in the lost lands "

Our Bathrooms are Theaters

As part of the lifestyle we maintain us humans become slaves to the schedule of the sun.
We lift our weary lids at the time it chooses to share its light.
Bearing our every fault.
a replay of activities from the night before is played in front of our eyes like a movie, the screen is the mirror.
Our bathrooms are the theaters.

Engine in my stomach

In wind storms, the wheel steers the car on top of  my bones, scrapes it's tires up my skin, and I can feel the engine running in my stomach, I can't stop shaking my damn leg. 
On this mission to convince myself that the wires connecting me to you are stronger than the strands of hair that fall off of my scalp.
The only thing I can feel is the metal spitting fumes into my ribs and even though I'm screaming out that this dust is blinding me, I cannot prove to be loud enough.
No body in the drivers seat, just conflicted notions, steering it's tires up my skin. 

i want this!

Math Class

I studied the curve of your smile.

The way your lips curled upward,

a crease on either side of your cheeks.

Points reaching peaks, your face is a graph. 

My eyes; the led and each darting movement of your expression is chased by my pencil and the mood changed, weather splits and each unit of your skin marked by freckles and weathered scars.

I refer back to the notes i had taken on smiles previous to yours.

and although pages are filled,  none of them explain how to graph your peaks and values.

your unlike any other, freckled points never moving and each of my coordinates remain steady on your sheet of skin. 

i want all of you,
right now,

right here. 

small plastic bags

in small plastic bags are my notes.
i've taken them while laying under tabled that hold candles and plates of food.
i listen to conversations has,
talks about politics and boring things.

untrue to their wings

across from the mill in your backyard is where the emptiness sits.
talks to loneliness and laughs at happiness.
feathers fall off of birds untrue to their wings.
and small minded picture frames hold frozen yesterday's and sometimes when i look out the window of your living room i can see those frozen frames come alive again.
as if the concept of breath was injected into the paper.
and smaller bowls of "hello's" lay on your windowsill, staring at the birds outside,
feathers falling from their wings.

green table cloth,
small feet running amongst isles of words, and i can't remember if you told me your name was johnny or june, and your hair is longer than when i last saw you.
blue eyes don't tell me much but thats okay with me because right before you fall asleep, you tell me stories about when you were young and how you would wander through concepts unbeknown to you.

i'd watch and consider kissing your forehead,
your blue eyes are talking again,
hair falling over your pillow.

i miss my dad.