RSZF

4 feet, 8 inches and things i'd like to forget the half finished jigsaw puzzle has been sitting on the kitchen table for months, the promise of hot-air balloons tersely mocking tension and the decrepit trains pass and rattle the pieces you told me to refinish the table, and so i dumped the pieces in the box, and put them on the counter. i spent days stripping the chipped and dented polyeurathane that had stood the test of unending arguments i sanded the rough surface to it's smooth origin an insecure metaphor for renewal, and the train passes and the table wobbles. i spray on the primer, and watch the grain disappear under a thin coat

you repeat your ancient similie and force your empty metaphor diamond and it sparkles. it's many clever facets attracting the raccon, with it's primal need. and cooing like a pidgeon, it stores it away to be forgotten. left in an infinite chamber of useless gems.

Vibrations in reality resonate within, distorting remnants of my conscious, Deteriorating the facade construct that chips away like soft slag,  and revealing raw hot waveform that stitches the streams of a soft skein of opalescent forme. It flows like a surreal blood and its ceremonious daily rite numbs the emotions singed by rage. It is watching myself falling at light speed through the frigid water that can shred the flesh from my bones, then turn the latter to dust which gelatinizes in this aquatic world, but the light warmth encasing me like an iron egg to float among the monsters of the deep. Smell the light citrus air th

I remember the Balloons the day we left Arizona the dry sky, spotted this morning, with speckles in the distance i remember the sweet syrup on fench toast sticks in a hardees new mexico watching azure, emerald, and crimson blobs, slowly floating over my head i remember the roar of the burners when we stopped for gas in Texas and i  stared in wonder wishing i could fly with one of those lumbering pilots i remember nightfall, and the glowing, bright giants their saturated hues lit by dragon fire, riding in the car in the darkness of Kansas the black void perforated by their friendly colors i remember the smell of residual prop

The perfect day is dark the day we met, a grandfather storm limped in from the north. it's wolf winds celebrated the joining of twin aftermarket souls, and a royal purple skein of fire struck to attest, but held nothing to the lightning in our kiss. the hard rain bees stung our skin, but we felt nothing but each other's warmth. then the slivers of solar glass pierced the clouds, and we finally hid from that above, and parted wordlessly, contempt for the sun varnishing what the rain washed away, and we wait impatiently for the next dark clouds

Stillborn i woke thirsty this morning thinking of you, and how glorious this new day might be, watching the shards of morning light stab the black horizon wondering if somehow we could pass a meridian every hour, and spend the rest our lives in the light of a single sunrise so that i should always have on hand, something with which to compare your beauty.

Automatic Inuring back when i, thought i knew what color was, your eyes so icey blue, hair streaked light yellow, living in a world of dirty greys, washed out and mellow back when i knew for sure what music was, the symphonies rang across the barren cornfields, dissonance reverberated off the lakes. and i told myself this had to be what love was, and i'd do whatever it takes back when i thought i knew what life was all about, we sat underneath that sunset tree, occasionally picking its forbidden fruit, discussing circles turning on themselves, nothing ever absolute

Speaking of Mountain Goats and Aftermarket Souls the word of the day is searching; searching not for the one, but someone to sit with in a car in the rain, overlooking a bright city whose lights cast mottled shadows on our octopus skin full conversations without speaking, living forever in the depths of each other's minds, and learning everything there is to know, from fingers tracing shifting patterns. not discerning who is touching whom, because we both feel every soft caress. listening to the radio whisper only the beginnings of songs about love and wanderlust. the animal instinct thickens the air, but our eyes, thin rays