laughing all the way into placated reciprocal tomes are those columns that calculate the handwritten experiment extrapolation found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home.

questions ensure the [...]]]> found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home
was an advertisement penned by a playwright’s abbreviations
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.

laughing all the way into placated reciprocal tomes
are those columns that calculate the handwritten experiment extrapolation
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home.

questions ensure the correct capacitance of your breasted chrome,
binding the electrons that carve like india ink striations
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.

“It is understood that atoms split and blow.”
is the first of fifty-four sentences in parchment selections
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home.

“It is with great substance that we explode.”
is first in the last little sentences scrawled by expectation
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.

nebulae are the easiest collisions to witness the gloam
of neutrinos and strings that vibrate each printed subduction
found at the shadow of your hips on a collage called home,
amidst the intervening light years of your supple ohms.

we all have hours, tied up in rigid red lace: tis the timing of futures that absolve the riddle’s case.

simple allegorical knots sewn up in fate’s chaotic vice: like destinies conundrum and coincidence spun thrice.

an oath and a turn in the prestige’s count, a suit well worn mussed up carousing [...]]]> i am mostly foolish,
if that is even the phrase:
a myth of the legend
running by at even pace.

we all have hours,
tied up in rigid red lace:
tis the timing of futures
that absolve the riddle’s case.

simple allegorical knots
sewn up in fate’s chaotic vice:
like destinies conundrum
and coincidence spun thrice.

an oath
and a turn
in the prestige’s count,
a suit well worn
mussed up
carousing for sound.

an eclectic collection
of baubles
random and slight,
is the confusion of
flattery in our silence
of sight.

i am mostly foolish,
if that is even the rhyme:
the unknown ahead
is closer
than the distances traveled
and left behind.

only you: know where time becomes true spacing.

simple midnight crush: escalates complexity like wizard’s rumination.

fantasy: is purest fiction in the seams.

five percent of me: is a cavern compared to cracks normally seen.

risqué word’s private collection: undefined.

five seconds of sleep: are the new lengths occupied by our dreaming seas.

we told ourselves that keeping simple secrets that we drag across aether filled eyes of blue could be held every step [...]]]> it was the copper of blue
and the touch needed in howling new york
in that box of white like an island
all of those nights in the fourteen years
before the day of this sunrise
and the randomness of unexpected secrets.

we told ourselves that keeping simple secrets
that we drag across aether filled eyes of blue
could be held every step of the way to a sunrise
over the peaks of steel and glass in our new new york
and for every one of those days there was a year
that drew us across the cold of a north pacific island.

and we have set sail across nights for an island
we found one day on a map in the secret
of your bedroom where you slept too little for those years
leading up to the first breath you drew when you wore the blue
dress across the landscape of linen under those old new york
winter nights dressed up in their scottish woolen sunrise.

and we are in the valley of kashmir for the purple sunrises
that cast the shadow of truth over a lush island
on the day i left on steel and empires for new new york
with the dream of every whisper in the secret
that our lifetime bought in the heather filled blue
soft coincidence of finding that new you weren’t looking for this year.

“It’s the years!”
you claim with each sunrise
and the sky turns from green gray gold to the garnet of blue
and reminds us of the day we found ourselves lost on this island
at the end of a dirt road we hold in secret
because to mention it would worry the ghosts of old new yorks.

“It’s the current of New York!”
i claim knowing that losing those years
is now worth so much more as i hold your name in the secret
sunrise
of this found lost dotted island
at the end of your blinks of true blue.

it’s really a secret letter from our magmatic island
that we spread with blue across these tunneled years
of the sunrise in our new tectonic new york.

there is the chance that you just might be Stalin in stockings or Pol Pot in a peignoir, but I have the notion that those are just definitions chosen by those that you properly ignore.

there may be [...]]]> you might just be Mussolini in mascara
or Hitler in heels,
ordering the masses from your balcony,
but I have a feeling that is just
the misdirection of restrained history.

there is the chance that you
just might be
Stalin in stockings
or Pol Pot in a peignoir,
but I have the notion
that those are just definitions
chosen by those that you properly
ignore.

there may be the possibility that you
are Castro in a camisole
mixed up in the menagerie of Mao,
but from what I have seen
it is far easier
to believe that you
are a Hume between the heat
of the sheets,
and I am just
your
Dada for dictators.

split that aeon: soaked in volition and bellies left breathing all of the musty memory of knowing: that time is the middle of chaos.

cool the chaos: igniting an aeon with hot cataclysmic knowing built on beach-heads of volition ensconced in memory: small slurs conjured by breathing.

beat [...]]]> shine the volition:
drenched in memory
and patterned in the chaos
of bodies entwined in knowing
that breathing:
is just the middle of an aeon.

split that aeon:
soaked in volition
and bellies left breathing
all of the musty memory
of knowing:
that time is the middle of chaos.

cool the chaos:
igniting an aeon
with hot cataclysmic knowing
built on beach-heads of volition
ensconced in memory:
small slurs conjured by breathing.

beat that breathing:
suspended in chaos
like a collection of memory
writing new words across our aeon
without volition:
senses are the passion of knowing.

echo the knowing:
caught in breathing
the seconds that pass for volition
like our subterfuge inducing chaos
entering an aeon:
that forges the novas of memory.

accrete that memory:
alive in knowing
the canvas of the eclectic aeon
we lose ourselves on by breathing
in chaos:
fire forging our own volition

counting each aeon of taciturn memory
is an act of volition cleft from knowing
that breathing is bested only in simplicity’s chaos.

a book slipping off the wind like hands in sly fiction, we run away in a whirlwind.

your current is a fires spin slow to moments of new diction, over our deserts to valleys of sin.

bend in the backwards limb of your dream in midnights subversion, we [...]]]> we run away in a whirlwind
smiling in sentience like introversion
over our deserts to valleys of sin.

a book slipping off the wind
like hands in sly fiction,
we run away in a whirlwind.

your current is a fires spin
slow to moments of new diction,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.

bend in the backwards limb
of your dream in midnights subversion,
we run away in a whirlwind

rings as electric as secret jasmine
locked away in temptation,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.

halcyon conundrums create a system
of movement in the maelstrom,
we run away in a whirlwind,
over our deserts to valleys of sin.

the maddening silence in throngs fade past a reflecting sight, i will listen to your song.

forget where we first came upon the shape of atrium and flight, losing myself all along.

sleep in middle awkward calm with glittering words to write, i will listen to your song.

someday is [...]]]> i will listen to your song
found at the end of two nights,
losing myself all along.

the maddening silence in throngs
fade past a reflecting sight,
i will listen to your song.

forget where we first came upon
the shape of atrium and flight,
losing myself all along.

sleep in middle awkward calm
with glittering words to write,
i will listen to your song.

someday is a verb delicately drawn
in the alacrity of a fight,
losing myself all along.

shake our twilight of dawn
by its loose lapels of white,
i will listen to your song,
losing myself all along.

i forget myself and eclipse. your moments rocket above the din and the time comes equipped, that the arms i want to sway are currently bound to others lips.

i conflict myself and disappear. your eyes slicing through the layer of who i am when you are near.

patience subdues sighs that merge into a question left as the surprise, fireworks explode as chemicals converge.

you laugh and lust of words that pulse in crooked time, wait: for lightning in the verse.

my sweat in your spit passes the urge like cascades of instances over spines, fireworks [...]]]> fireworks explode as chemicals converge
inside our skin of ambient sky,
wait: for lightning in the verse.

patience subdues sighs that merge
into a question left as the surprise,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.

you laugh and lust of words
that pulse in crooked time,
wait: for lightning in the verse.

my sweat in your spit passes the urge
like cascades of instances over spines,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.

this moment next is like forgotten dearth
remembering your old heart is wise,
wait: for lightning in the verse.

hair and hand and seconds fall to earth
pushing and desiring these growing eyes,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge,
wait: for lightning in the verse.