because he crossed the place where

endings begin and

noticed the tiny coils that accumulated on sidewalks

he was desperate for small things-

the way bits of gravel dust clung to balmy shins.

the void that overtook at night,

blank walls, empty parking lots.

a quiet comfort of sinking

into beer bottles and folded up into sheets for days.

and shopkeepers

that greeted, staring making him

self-conscious. 

the nothingness that made up 

distractions, the brush of a stranger's shoulder.

the darkness and how he blended into it,

an indiscernible figure.

night sounds

the little sounds at night 

echo in my ears 

taunting me making me

second guess why it

is i am trying to go to sleep

anyway.

drip drip- drain leaky under the sink

rattle rustle- rabbit chewing on her cage

creak squeak- floorboards give way to downstairs neighbor's feet.

at times...

- I wonder if weird stuff like this happens to other people.

untitled

wind sweeps past my face 

I catch you
sitting across from me on the porch.

tangled up in your own thoughts-
they seem detached and simple
like the dead leaves getting carried around by the same wind.

soon it will be fall and we will still sit out here and
I will try to behold you.

search for you beyond
the way you graze the back of my neck with your lips,
push on my hips.

But somehow-
I can still feel that brush of chilly wind
and a question too deep for you to answer.

even on the longest of porch-sitting days
and me watching, trying to find where you are.

here's something...

 maybe there's a chance that this tidbit of advice is glaringly obvious, you decide:

  ** Be Honest. With yourself. With people.**

lover's eyes

their eyes.

just one

from each pair.

I lay down on them

at night when

I go to sleep

in this bed.

most of them are

blue. Some are

brown and some

aren't any color.

shame that

this space used to belong

to me

and now I have to share it

with them.

When they are angry at me

my back hurts from their staring into it.

when they taunt me

their coy glances leave me wanting.

but most of all, when they

rob me of sleep,

they inhabit my dreams.

I might wake up in

a bigger bed with more

of them woven into

every stitch of the sheets.

hmmm

Why is it that I get a resurgence of creative energy at the most inopportune times. I seem to only know what to write when I'm trying to fall asleep at 3 a.m. or when I'm in class. Most times it happens when I don't have a pen within my grasp or I'm in a conversation with someone. Can you imagine..."hold that thought a second I need to jot down a poem," what strange looks i would get, especially from people that don't know me. hah!