we can build a fire,

and listen to songs

about all the things

we almost had,

but still miss,

and we'll make a toast

to the words

floating just out of reach,

whiskey on ice

and the bitter taste

of reality,

and we'll smile when we see

that none of us are

drinking alone tonight,

that none of us are.

alone.

all missing the same things

in different ways,

finding solace in the laughter,

maybe a few tears before dawn,

and words that taste like blood

as they leave us,

that look like love,

another round for all of us

still pretending to be whole,

still drinking slow enough

to greet the sun.

and if morning finds us

with all our words spent,

may the ashes of our pens

be scattered,

and may the pieces

float lighter

because they know,

the sharing of ink

has given us wings.

when all the words

I've chiseled out of myself,

break the surface of flesh,

and I bleed out the blackened scabs,

I'll stand naked in the light,

and look down

on my shotgun-shadow,

and see myself for the first time

in a mirror made of dirt.

and I will build a rake made from the bones

of empty pens to scratch the itch

of phantom phrases,

ones cut off long ago,

before I really knew how to use them.

and I will erase my ink with flame,

and filter the fumes through myself

in one final attempt to say it all

in signals of smoke that rise up

until sunrise smells like death

and looks like the silhouette

lying on the ground before me.

She breathes soft, with parted lips,

And I'm holding her lungs

As she dreams,

Taking drags of her exhales and

Twirling her secrets with my fingers,

Conducting a ballad for ghosts.

And the rhythm matches her pulse.

And I can't stop taking shots

That smell like her hair,

closing my eyes around the memory of this.

Trying to zipper her heartbeats into me.

If only secrets could fall dead like fall,

I would walk walk

On the voices of nightmares,

And squish fireflies into her hair,

so her dreams can make the light

Flicker.

But the strands grazed by my touch

hide even the brightest of dawns.

And the morning will erase it all.

And show the guts matted on her skull.

And when it rains, I'll say a prayer,

For innocence as it's washed

Into the dirt,

Like moonlight turned

To threads,

Streaking across the body of earth

As though to stitch the wound.

There will be

A canyon reflecting her face,

A reminder for angels that it is possible

To

Heal.

And I'm drunk

On the tears she plucked from her heart,

tripping like those who sleep in alleys,

And I will join them.

And live off

The electronic clicks she makes

When she blinks.

Because my hands

Crave that moment

Of eyelids eclipsing sun,

Of lashes that blanket

Full moons

And drown the sound of wolves

As they hold tongue,

Standing in awe

Of her footprints, deciding

that they followed the wrong trail,

Chasing the kill,

And missing flower.

I stand unsurprised,

Caressing the shadow

Of her,

As she replaces dawn

So I will build a pulpit in my heart

And tell the tale of fingertip

And flesh until I believe

That her outline

Makes perfect sense

Of the havoc,

Chapter and verse pinpointing treasure.

Like coordinates.

And me,

Sailing to discover

places lost long ago.

Where my death becomes a rudder

And guides me past the tides

holding her,

As all my intention

snakes along the shore,

hoping to pull her into me,

That there would be no blade of sand

That separates,

And if only for a while

my current would carry

her weightless into the deep.

And our love will salt the sea,

and she will break the fangs of sharks

to a dust she'll wear as glitter,

and we will dig beneath the ocean

and I will shatter coral and stone

to clear the currents,

and watch my blood become clear

as it fades like smoke into the liquid.

And we will chew the rust of treasure

and gold

as decay creeps like mercy

over the surface of coin and crown,

because down here,

everything will fade beneath her,

and her splendor

will make every sunken ship

forfeit hope of rescue,

for who would dig further

than her reflection?

So I will sever the neck

that is not there,

and orphan the octopus

for need of ink dark enough

to make a map,

that her eyes would see the path to shore.

and the massacre will lead her to safety.

And I will drag her beyond horizon

to a place where rescue is impossible.

Where she will tame volcanoes with a smirk,

where she will bleed the magic of paradise

like a vein needing rest,

an undoing of logic into mayhem.

I will trap that conquered earth

into my heart,

she will resurrect sand to stone

by merely looking,

I only hope,

to be caught within the gaze.

And when it's too dark to see,

I'll connect the dots hanging from heaven

as stars that dangle

like a necklace around an angels throat,

and follow her freckles

into the sky,

to a place where everything

reminds me of her face.

She'll pretend she doesn't notice,

but I will rip the canopy of clouds

until she has room to stand above it,

and see,

the shadow of her is a premonition

of all that shines.

And from this perch,

she will rain down love with furry,

and scratch the dirt with empathy,

and I will stand in awe

as all her prayers change

from vapor to concrete.

And I'll become a scribe,

using my skin in place of parchment,

writing the saga of her soul,

where no beating chest fails,

and the screams of devils flee

the halos raining down from her eyelids.

And death would beg for mercy,

fearful of a world that bends

beyond reason and doubt.

And we will follow her tears

back into the soil,

like starting over,

and her footprints will give way to dawn,

and she will tell the broken

how blemish became beacon,

and every little belly will feast

on ink and blood and broken soil,

and every mother would know

the secrets that pierce heaven,

and every babe would drink

like tomorrow is certain,

and every father would rise

like blood in water until the smoke

became bread,

and she would carve her tombstone

with prayers,

telling of a journey that took her

beyond the brink of death

and life,

into an abyss where heaven

waits in such a heart as hers.

And I will hang my sins until they die,

until every attempt to breathe

reminds me of her sleeping

soft within my arms,

dreaming of a day when all these words

awaken and her hope becomes reality.

I have no knowledge of what will wake

with us in the morning,

but I pretend that whatever it is,

will in some way look like her.

But she breathes soft,

and my hands are full

and my eyes are losing focus,

music beginning to fade within me,

I know the world inside her

will fall before she wakes.

But she's talking in her sleep,

and I hear it all, like learning a language

I'm not ready for.

And soon, her dreams will become braille

and I'll reach for it as one blind,

and my hands will trace her cheeks

and try to learn the pattern of her lips

as they make a map bright enough

to lead me into safety.

how long will children carve the names

of colors in stanzas,

how long,

before the earth becomes a mirror and

all flowers turn black,

before they sip the soil

at teatime,

toasting to the heaven

above everyone they've ever lost,

and they'll be angels on that day,

standing on the dust

of paradise,

and, if we're lucky,

they'll play pretend,

and write rhymes

about roses,

like the petals

could one day last forever,

like their little polygraph heartbeats

don't give them away,

if only we could help them

disconnect,

this innocence would look less like a lie,

would look more like life,

and we'd teach them

to play hopscotch on our graves,

we'd teach them to see that angels

never fall before they leave the ground

and darkness sometimes creeps from above,

so I smoke to learn how

to say goodbye,

let's watch together,

as every cloud becomes lost,

and we'll finally see ourselves painted

by nature,

with petals black

and faces held in the memory

of the fallen.

I'm raising a sail

with skeleton threads,

and you can see through me,

I look like heaven

above a blackened sea

that rolls like glass

as it attempts to escape

from itself,

waves raking the shore

with broken fingers,

trapped by the howling

of wolves,

and men,

and babes,

landlocked souls

with arms reaching

into the water,

no cup to catch a drink,

no sail to borrow wind,

they raise a banner of bones,

and I can see the breeze

watch itself go through

without embrace.

So,

it gives no movement back.

Hey folks, trying something new here by creating an audio version of a write. Please join in, especially if you have an accent. Hehehe. Joking. But seriously, this could be fun. I hope the link works. If not, let me know.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B0YTicjI92SZdEdmeWppN1NQLU0

I will carve the air

we breathe

with blood and words,

and we will

reinvent legacy

as two orphans,

using amnesia

to cement our second chances,

and we will leave a trail

that looks like stone

and feels like starting over,

that smells like sun-dried air

passing over lovers,

and our children will stand

on mountains that curve

like our spines,

and we will live for the weight

of tiny feet that walk

upon everything we dreamed of.

and our hearts will become lakes

at the summit,

where generations feel

the pulse as they swim.

and I will follow your essence

into the clouds, and together,

we will wash them as rain

until there is no sky.

until there are no feet

left to climb.

when she smiles beneath the sun

day brushes against the dawn,

and I'm killing clovers like a child,

hoping that the randomness of it all

will somehow shape the future,

and I'll sneak her in

so no one catches us,

and she'll wiggle inside my noose,

and we'll steal a ride to heaven

while we listen to the ocean

sweep the shore clean of footprints,

and midnight will look

like I feel inside when

she's snuggled warm upon my chest,

and the moon will reflect her face

with continents shaped like her lips,

and I'll forget tomorrow and everything

that made it,

and I will drop a tear when

I realize that life is real,

that I won't wake up

from this dream until I die.

even then, I will wrestle eternity

in search for the humanity

that beats within her chest.

I'm shedding scars in the form of ink,

words stretch like shadows from blood

when pain shines against my stanzas,

and I will dream of a place

where tears become knapsacks,

where thirst becomes peace

when it's full.

and I'm counting rubble

before the quake because

I have plans to build a cave

beneath the sky,

because the scrapes of my hand

have brought it down,

and clouds will drift upon me as ash,

and my pen will paint pictures of the fallout

on the walls of my dwelling,

hidden beneath the crust

of a graveyard not yet buried,

hidden under the bones

of my kin,

the death of whom,

rains down on me

in the form of dust,

currents of the future,

colors of the day,

and I'll pray for lava

to turn these weeds to stone,

and with a brush and an ax

they'll study my petrified scribbles,

my fossilized lungs,

my prehistoric love.

he flinches in the light,

head down,

checking himself for sins

he might have missed

when he tried

to scrub the darkness away,

but his soul is frail

like butterfly wings,

and he opened holes

beneath the mist

he wears as skin,

shaped like the bristles

of whiskey and cigarette burns,

harsh like good intention

possessed by weakness.

but there is no door

in the cocoon

shaped for re-entry,

no wisp of nature's breath

that forms a current

back to the beginning,

no passage beneath the clock,

but he rises, knowing,

broken wings

can still glide home.