peeling planets
from
relic treehouse
ceiling,
dangling
stars
like tinsel earring
prom queen
fantasy
in fading
car,
pity you still
shame
me
for not praising
all must
sees..
how long lost
we are.
stream of conscious
winter semester’s
leftovers
flake
like
chalk
contours me
where aspirations
fell asleep,
screen flickers with
a younger
cast
poorly paid and
painted
over
convocation
portrait
of
any student forced
to ignore
spills
on dorm room
carpets,
swagger up to
muted
mic
stand side by
pride
with any
fool in room,
name his genius,
curse his
luck-
snicker like his jokes
don’t suck.
she flashes queens
to show who
leads
with
courtly will
finds us flower
framed
and mounted for
the masses,
gossip at the
gallows
shrill
and hollow,
sinking to my knees,
in lethargy-
not
to appease.
rock, paper swan tongue slithers
into folding legs
of scissors
silver blinding hordes
in corners
numbed by grind of
mind traps
mice..
arch and writhe selves
out of vice.
i’d have posed higher
questions
knowing what i can’t
see now,
do you still read clouds
out loud
or
call doves
to your dreams
and if so,
how?
midday meeting
friendship workload
right on time
for fake
it,
not taken for a
real boy-
all
strings,
salt drips
thru heart’s bricks,
inhale
raw throat dusk,
nothing floods
the well
but echoes become ash
once heard.
drying under
moon,
can’t spot our
reflection
where we were painted
in the sky with
spilt milk,
coasting into
dawn,
in search of
graceful
song
to lament the
downed sky
we both
built.
hands in the garden 
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