the wild things.

slinky don't slip away from me keep me blinking as fast as a bumblebee in the forests filled with leprechaun fairies. you're the only guide i have. it's you that i follow dodging these hollow trees trying hard to swallow iris petals and willow leaves. they say it will help me sleep. you said you believed in unicorns but when one stepped out of the dark forlorn you said it had to be born of a real life animal and broke off its horn leaving me to mourn and weep over the loss of a soul. my soul embodied in this beautiful dying beast. but slinky how could you not see this silly wild thing you sneer at is everything i've ever wanted to be?

making magma pie.

three angels dressed in black floated to the casket
with white, glowing robes hanging from their shoulders.
no one spoke, and no one spoke of the deceased.
but this was not heaven, it couldn't be;
it was a cruel joke played on us all by reality.
faulty, your hand. it quivers as you try to take a stand.
but what? what is this that is falling down?
your head dropped towards the floor and so came tumbling your shiny crown.
icicles are overcrowding this room and scooting underneath your sheets,
filling your deceivingly nice looking bed with doom(and doubt).
i doubt that this would kill you even if it all went under the bridge.
i couldn't tell you which way i came from,
nor the path less traveled. i couldn't tell you right from left,
nor scriptures or life-changing passages.
my throat is raw and it spreads to my lips.
eyes cry lava streams so that everybody runs away from me.
because when i cry, it burns you.
well, it burns me, too.

april 15th does not have to be your downfall.

i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i am not tired.
i could listen forever.
JUMP!
swim to shore from that sinking ship.
faith is something that just hits you, don't let it miss you.
enough treading, paddle until your lungs give out.

Mt. St. Hellens killed President Truman.

what you doing?
don't trip ;
that acid won't make you glad
any more than anything else could.
it smells clean in my room, or maybe just compared to
your long-haired sheets and smell of doubt.
i haven't seen the clouds in so many days.
i must come out!
look at all these pictures,
i wrote you so many letters.
why haven't you written back?
take that back.
retract your hand and take a few steps back.
this room is filled with ten thousand people
and your words float above their heads,
like an eagle passing by that lost all its feathers,
like a mother whose child was taken by the sky,
like the last leaf of summer,
trickling down,
d o w n
o
w
n
.
look at me, i'm still crazy.