Typewriter

No mistakes
Only blue oceans and red fire trucks.
I want to love and to love you back, but that’s a mistake.
That’s a foggy summer day and a question mark on a declarative sentence and that sentence is
something will go wrong
I’m afraid I’ll never find owls at night and doves in the morning because
lately it’s only been fish and dry land
when everyone else
found the water. I’m not
the field of flowers for your orchids, I’m the aquarium.
I spell numbers, not letters, and they’re not adding up right.
Wrong turns get me where I need to be, and I’m the
lighting to your
calm.
The path less traveled is well worn
and I make empty, pretty words
that meant the truth
of the matter is that
nothing is the matter because everything is wrong.
I draw my motorcycles with four wheels because I want to
get there faster and my planes with no wings because
I don’t know where I’m going.
A forest full of trees? I’m a forest full of grass because
it’s the little things in life.
I’m the bright blue sun
the drop in your faucet
an ocean full of orange
and a past of mistakes
that pave the way back the to future
and forward to the dawn.

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Some nonsense for the road

Listening to songs about

Moving to a romantic city out there and spreading love across sunrises and sunsets 

Is like grasping at skydivers because 

Life’s a station where stationary is complacent and that boy’s halfway across the nation. Everyone’s chained to their places and wishing never erases 1,000 miles. Or 1,000 smiles at the thought that spring break lasts all year long. A song full of promises, see through rose rainbows straight into lava pits, all of this with no regrets except a tightening of the chest. It’s hard to express how love often forgets. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe then it’s good to wander, into crimson skies where tired eyes turned to say their last goodbyes. A goodbye is hardly over, usually a bad hangover, it’s a heart that’s always sober. Maybe it takes a cold October? Because months pass, pain fades on roller coaster escapades. Everglades? Anywhere where heartaches waves, the ocean sighing starfish blades. If there’s a way to be born and raised, it’s with a shotgun to survive and a map for the ways. Then set it ablaze, where something is is where something stays. 

The Last; again

My first attempt at found poetry on a rainy sickly afternoon. 

They kissed and 

His breath smelled of wine 

God said nothing to her 

A secret war

My body. 

He showed me his life. 

Unfortunate, alone. 

No one 

A vineyard to die 

Then only after 

At once 

Cry 

She repeated. 

Left alone. 

He said, I have no right to you. This will be the last, again.   

Down to the Wire

She knew that she was going to fall from the start but sometimes she liked to imagine tightropes were endless.

But they call it a high-wire for a reason so she kept tiptoeing along.

Eye level with the crowns of sky-scrapers, she was on top of the world, saying hello to the eagles and the airplanes.

Until she forgot the advice of the old adage –

Don’t look down.

Busy city, criss-cross streets and rail-road tracks of realities – her life down below.

There was a fine line between what could and couldn’t be and she had toed it long enough.

So she went crashing down, waving  into office windows and tugging at leaves on far reaching branches, because even as she dove down to her demise she refused to let it go all the way.

For a long time she would need to remind herself from so high up, you’re the last to see the sun rise and the first to see it set.

She’d climb another rainbow ladder there someday, on point to get her head lost in clouds and moonbeams.

But it would take a long time.

From that tightrope in the sky she realized

only when you’re so close to the sun do you see how far away you are from the ground.