A HOP OF HOPE

Red

Screw poetry, it’s you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.

I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me.

I didn’t like having to explain to them, so I just shut up, smoked a cigarette, and looked at the sea.

I Dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.

I don’t exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it.

Transition

innocence hides in the pine leaves // a world traced with the smell of abandonment // but nothing gothic // nothing monstrous // hides here // the quintessence of heartaches, // and our first high // magic mushrooms & lungs full of fog // we felt alive //  tourists accuse us // for the mercury in our veins // sing about their fast cars, and glitter roads // but all I smell is the city smog on their unwashed collars // the way their stories are batons // probing for a smile // a fruit fly tug. // pity. // i smile with the light of burning flowers  ** there is a history to this place // of the old ones and wild bees // this hill where the gods // have their affairs // where my people smell of sandalwood // have waterfalls for souls // home. // where we make up stories of monsters // lurking in the forests // to hide our silence // the tourists call us dead.  but they are summer birds // hibernators come December // And we // are the dead things // alive in winter // biting the cold where it hurts // when the graveyard comes to life //  home. // where every lie told about our savagery // remains.