Butterflies play with your eyebrows

This is one of the butterflies that plays with your eyebrows.
Photo by Boris Smokrovic on Unsplash
Weirdo, I know what you're thinking,
when butterflies play with your eyebrows.
You think it excusable to have them
do so. I tell you that it is
so tell the butterflies go for it.

It is afternoon sometime in Paris.
I hear it's a cool city,
but I don't know. My mind
is now dedicated to another location,
within walking distance of the train el
and the rhythmic thumping
of passing hours.

I'll light a lantern and venture
to the woods, barely seeing the traces
of monster faces when my eyes are closed,
but i am in the land of bricks and concrete
when conscious.

Nature is still indeed my nature,
the scraping on leaves against
street also natural,
created by someone like I,
created by someone of nature.

Take me, the dull street creature,
seeing the shiny teals and purples
of mine subtler.

I want you to take me
to the sewer to the stink
of this planet. It helps me to live
to see the clothing hung out on lines,
it helps me live
to hear glass breaking,
though the crack brings
to sight exploding
the place I heard the gunshot.  

 

A discarded letter from your toxic ex

Photo by Radoslav Bali on Unsplash
My eyes once dropped like cartoon anvils
but now my cage is struck
whenever demons mock the trinity
and my cable resets
and those without early work
wake the neighbors with vintage soul tracks.

What I do is I order tacos,
I scribble while I can 
till the warm day I pop out
and somebody pops me. 

A pact was made with lesser beings
who sometimes come to my dreams
to tell me things, all useless,
but the years no longer grow heavy
and the voice who recounted stories
 of my childhood beating
and the day I slipped while running
on ice no longer talks to me.

I walk the park and I feel the park likes me,
its sun beats my face to shiny eye me
so that I'm hypnotized by its glitter
in the leaves.

I walk purples of flowers,
her beside me,
our trail emitting foliage, a forest
with grass the color of pearls.

I don't expect you to understand
the mythical creature conjured
that is my aura,
it has horns and paws.
its fur is thick 
so that if you kill my spirit
your feet can feel its rug.
You, human-like can tell stories
of how I once roamed the land,
a unipanigriffinipanicorn,
luxurious is how your guests would describe it,
in your no shoe household.

I once had respect.
I once ate mangoes with the greatest of men,
we held the mangoes up, took bites
from them and had mango parties,
we threw the mangos
and mangoes were thrown at us, 
which hit our cheeks softly.
We drank Mango wine.
We dipped our cups
into a mango pool sourced
from a mango fountain.
But I didn't know how to maneuver,
cutting into neat slices
rather than eating messy.

What I do now is I order tacos,
which,
if you think about it,
isn't so bad.

Yesterday tomatoes fought

Photo by Brenna Huff on Unsplash
Yesterday tomatoes fought and made sauce of one another,
using tin cans for armor, their insides barely spilled. You will consume
the perfect tomato. You will add
it to your consciousness.
Your consciousness is now a pizza,
a pizza with a top hat,
a pizza made of empires
of pepperoni,
radiating extra cheese.
oozing countenance,
twirling its cane
as it descends down your throat.

Authentic, dark and dirty is the undercurrent surfed

Dark and dirty apartments like mine which I live in proudly.
Photo by Sunrise on Unsplash
It's impossible not to be changed by my old, humming fridge,
sturdy, unphased by its lack of futuristic appeal,
a white box born cool, not yet collected
for the landfill, still eating my ice cream
and vomiting it out on command,
talking the way it talks-- brrrrr

Authentic, dark and dirty,
Authentic, dark and dirty,
so I've been born an ugly man,
too awkward and too nerdy,
long dead before I'm killed,
a hungry zombie unfulfilled,
I want to eat your brains,
I want to eat your brains.

It's impossible not to be changed by my gray walls.
They look at me. I look back at their molding, furrowed,
it seeks to browbeat me, but I can't be cowed.
I shall not be mooed.

My hand bursts from my dirty home,
I walk slow, but you're bound to trip
over your tasteless garden gnome,
into your your shoulder I will rip
with fake teeth I've been buried with,
my life spent with poor dental health
won't save you from my undead grip
I belch out pieces of a belt.

I've matured the way my old apartment matures
with an old tub better than those recent,
deep, deeper than pooled learning
of performers in conference rooms presenting
with software built by builders building babel 
shaken by thunder, struck by light inevitable,
confusing establishment upholders,
their hierarchy undermined
by a fart I let out in the bath.  










Aliens, baseballs and bullsh**

Baseball game, enjoyable, but it ends.
Photo by Mike Bowman on Unsplash
There might be something in there of value that I can take,
taken by this delusion I am daily,
thinking that my lazy earnestness will suffice
for the cars and the shops and the vendors
of gaudy goods,
thinking my earnestness will compete
with snowy television sounds and the pissy subway.
Maybe I'm not for here, where I've gotta impress,
but for some alien world where big purple 
trees bend down to feed you fruit punch,
where the aliens invite you to random dance parties
in which the moves don't matter 
but enjoyment does. 
It's not so bad to not love people 
as it is to consider people not worth loving.
What you'd have to think about is that
the sun peaks through every once in a while.
You can go to a baseball game and enjoy it,
but you've gotta remember to really take in the baseball game
because there are only so many innings 
and then you've gotta do something else,
maybe buy some mouth wash or write a bad poem.

Bless you, eternal anime

A dog in a clown collar, a nod to the mover
Photo by Kevin Jarrett on Unsplash
Bless you, eternal anime, episodes plentiful,
full of leveling-up until
opponents fall through the special move.

I, mover, large-eyed, bearing teeth,
spring to unleash the dogs
that are my sword
so the yelping can be carried
by the scruff of the neck.

I, mover, am not stilled
by defeats accumulated
through my quest,
though questioned  
by the defeated, fearing
large red shoes and frill.

Bless you, eternal anime,
I, mover, am large-eyed,
unleashing dogs that are my sword,
a special move.
I wear red shoes and frill,
a fool to the defeated,
carrying my enemies by the scruff
of their necks to leave at your feet.
 

 

There really are monsters under your bed and in the closet

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash
There really are monsters
under your bed,
waiting to grab you
in the middle of the night
while you're sleeping.

There really are  monsters
who sometimes, 
when you're in bed staring 
at the ceiling,
stare at you from the closet
with glowing eyes.

There really are morlocks
who live in the sewers,
who reach out of manholes
by the crosswalk.

There really are gremlins
that chew the wires
inside our machines
and spit all over
the microchips.

There really are bigfoots
in the forest who go
into your cooler
to steal your beer.

There really are ghosts
in old houses that float,
waving their arms,
howling and opening
your cabinet doors
because opening cabinets
for the dead is interesting.

There really are demons
you see the moment
you're about to die
if you've done all the wrong
things.
They crawl on the walls
and the floor toward you.
I've heard of one
that possesses the bodies of folks
behind the wheel of a car
so it can make them crash.
You'll never know when
they will visit.

There really are creepy bugs
and spiders with super long legs
that exist solely to hop on you
when you least expect it.

There really are reptiles
that pretend to be famous people,
wearing suits and crowns
and military clothing.

There are vampires 
determined to brood,
who in a hundred years
haven't learned to set up
their castle with electronic devices.

There's a spirit that laughs
when you try to wave sage at it.
It waits till you're done waving
the sage and have closed the door.
Minutes after, it farts,
unleashing a fart storm
unimaginable since times of old,
you scream,
but no one is there to save you
and the poison gas. green and brown,
fills the room.

Be wary human. Don't stray 
too far away from the fire,
don't look beyond
the glow of the flashlight,
don't close yours eyes.






The owl called Grand Father

An omniscient owl, a sublunary being with the characteristics of outer space
Photo by Dirk van Wolferen on Unsplash
In the gnarly tree is an owl called Grand Father
who can talk, though not everyone knows
he talks,
to most he's just known to follow folks
with his eyes, two suns eclipsed,
head rotating as they move along.
Rats, cats and dogs don't exist within his orbit,
His wings darkening midnight. 
He never asks who 
because because he already knows
the answer, relaying it to whoever's worthy,
his only companions the stars.




 

The cumulonimbus stands over you watching

Cumulonimbus, the thunderhead cloud, representing regretful moments hanging over you to rain down unexpectedly
Photo by Graeme Cross on Unsplash
Strain, climb up hills and trees, 
gain  followers,
construct a leaf pile in the shape of Machu Picchu,
the cumulonimbus stands above you watching
with photos you've long deleted,
bringing rain down to all in a moment proper,
on a day you've forgotten your umbrella
so your pants can stick to your legs 
and your feet can slosh in your shoes
and your eyes can become red, dripping
sky on your face, indistinguishable from tears,
because the grass must be fed,
damn your dignity.

The anatomy of a tulip told by someone who knows nothing about flowers

A great number of tulips, used to convey an inconceivable variety yet, at the same time, finite.
Photo by Leonardo Iheme on Unsplash

Nurtured in quiet, the ripples in puddles tapped by falling bloom
prompt the opening in my forehead to accept white swirling
clouds descending from another plane so that my eyes glow with light
and I speak that light to you so that, if you understand,
you can speak your light to me,

Not with my own power do I speak it, my body's composition
incapable of traveling  a significant number of steps from its location 
to the sun,
 but I'll make an attempt to have my mindscape shaped and nurtured, consuming
murmurs of saints, looking at whales at length, smelling
the ocean at empty beaches, taking in the leaves rustling,
hearing a cello,
feeling dew touch my feet before the ground notices it's summer,
licking ice cream from a cone, I'll attempt to conceive past what I perceive
to see if anything exists beyond perception,

With that I ask, "Who goes there beyond the veil and why didn't you
answer when I called to you?,"
small as I am, I'm every bit a universe, don't you see?

Mornings, rotations, revolutions, both significant and insignificant alike,
we sit like dust mites under a couch to be vacuumed by greater forces,
despite the greatness of our minuteness, we  consider and have to feel
considered,
somehow thinking it matters to be loved,
the choice being to accept there's none, to be perpetually aware of space,
but struggle against space and elements,
crushing with their whelm,
because lunch must be eaten and errands run,
the list must be ticked until no ticking's left,
battling against tick tocks till tick tocks overtake me,
to be swirling dust inhaled and coughed out by rabbits, and beggars, and royals,
but unaware as I'm unaware now,
no different from a rock or a rocking chair or a basket,
impactful just the same,

a crowd roars in a stadium in the distance,
far more enlightened and present.