uneasily lies the head that wears the crown.

it didn't rhyme" and I knew baby, maybe it's me and maybe it's you or maybe it was a sign of the times that maybe I should just call it quits. grown-ups with futures and daughters and real-life meaning filled dreams don't write love-soaked sonnets.

think of your mom, and thank her.

full of love for a little one who deserves so much more than me in 2017. perhaps some high-powered lawyer mother, a mother who carries a briefcase to hold the important papers for her six-figure work, and a world who listens.

seeing frailty only as handy kindling, witness to your cleverness,  your weapon-eyezd  magnifying-glass. 

it is: hoping that my fierce, committed love, will be enough.

surrounded by jasmine vines tall like trees, and climbing roses that still, will cut more than skin deep.

i sit right down,  about to become another author- version of myself- the self whose pronouns shift like the wind, the size of a camera-lense in each  instant it is zooming, suddenly you have two feet, and then... suddenly you’re s p a c e. it’s excitement-that  racing feeling of on-to something, down        the            stairs, to find a light - never lost, only waiting, for you to ask- & come around the bend. 

unfolding like an arthritic cat today, i greet the halfway gray afternoon: and i wonder, a humanache? heartbreak? or present tense?

and me? ohm, shanti, shanti, shanti.

i whisper to the sky how, i love the lines of you, the photography of you the way that you move. maybe it's the mexican martini, i've only had half of one and i feel like i've given away almost a whole of my heart. what was left to give in shattered pieces joyfully. mine, yours, we'll grow together as the second hand clicks onward, honestly. the future that i see is chaotic, but blends beautifully, maybe my immune system misses yours but i could speak a thousand words and none of them would be as sincere as: when i look at you, and i look at you, when i realize you see it in how i observe, beautiful, it's all so colorful, so brilliant, so desperate and grasping and lemons and l,  o,   v,     e, in time after this hour chimes. my compass may not point north, but it always points straight.

it's strange as a scientist to walk in and recognize someone, not their hair, maybe not their eyes just luminous smile, the way time twines and untwines our threads into ropes, and maybe an anchor maturing from growing pains. but i do. serpent to my staff, i have been waiting all my life to run into your arms, pull your hair to to what the ultimate expression of lust? rutting and wanting and wanting more.

your text, so small, simple, that one heart pleading question; "Where Are You" little girl, tore my eyes into useless, choking teardrops. i'm not a phoenix, my tears can't heal and don't suck away at your sorrow, but i wish they did. little bird, i wish your wings weren't broken and your beak were unbruised. perch with me, and look at the world a little longer, a breath longer, several heartbeats  at least. enough to see earthly color and your reflection in the window of my eyes.

weak heartbeats fleeting with sun-rays still beating upon tin roofs but its almost-evening sun, and the terry cloth mothers love while, wire mother monkeys stick their babies with coat-hanger guns. i'm standing bare and merciless, as rheese monkeys and american children become other without reason & speed. tachycardia stretches out and little lambs become suicide bombs, who made the mistake of putting on shoes and schools and cutting their hair. wind up coils of anxiety because ashes,ashes we're  all c-u-t down.

(i love you.)

i'm not sure how i've ended up because there are no endings made, or finished in cities full of alleyways and feral cats. hiding under tires to show you will survive and i will survive, and the land will bloom again. no endings but the present unwraps little trinkets from 50 cent machines. in grocery stores and upcoming haircuts, shorn in time for spring. and the normal non-noise of yardwork down the street before mariachi music begins and afternoon presents pop open like a brew top.

CAPTAIN and i thrive in t   i d   e s of change. i take down my history and make it ours. writing the beat of my spoken song. inform deformed thoughts, spew metaphors like a gum-ball machine whose glass i smashed, chew on it.

paint bomb of red splattered, urban walls. i don't bike by your place anymore. i don't remember the number and i didn't want to remember the name. or the ghosts in your bed behind your door. per haps reincarnated, linked, we'll remain. this is love? this bleak outlook, these grackles picking at creek-bed underbrush. but in society's eyes, and through its glasses you see all you wish. it's nothing special.