what to make
of scars
that rinse off in
bathwater?
where the body holds
its warmth
without promises
from others.
rhyme
echoes of ivory
stain this lounge blue,
while hot liquid saxophone
melts my ears too,
the microphone’s got
a voice of
its own,
amplifying whose
truths?
with coin in
palm
i seek out
slot
in which to drop
my gold,
in hopes the dream
will show,
not that chance
will make
it so.
freest when far
from home,
a nomad all
my days,
the path is where
i’ll lay my
bones,
while moonlight
bathes my
face.
who are you to see
this through
while i’m fingers
clutching
fence?
so, how do you know
what’s true
when i’m suspect
at best?
blue flames in
frames,
swollen eye
paint,
wincing through
steel rains,
watching birds
grow faint.
i aim a cracked
camera
at streets that won’t
stop moving,
on a day that crawls
down my neck
like a parade
of city
pests,
i aim my cracked
camera
in the hopes that
no one sees
my vain attempt with
shy contempt
to frame this washed
out scene.
rain is freezing upon my
brain thawing
and now feelings are
seeping
from the pits of
my eyes,
with a freshness
so freeing.
no questioning where
lost time
went,
each step marked in
liquid cement,
a breath like ash
upon life’s
page,
the voice that can’t
conceal its
age.
can’t get over
things..
that never happened,
and can’t climb
over forms
that just
exist
anywhere the sun
won’t kiss.
hands in the garden 
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