Forecasts

Some mornings even

predictions of

daily forecasts are

impossible.

Or maybe it can be

accredited to our

8am laziness, sleep

fresh in our skin.

We turn to satellites

floating above our field

of vision; mechanics my

eyes have yet to see.

Remote contraptions and

technologies guide our

hands like children through

infinite words and information.

The same means deliver

our intergalactic emotions;

from one screen to another,

one state to another.

Some mornings checking the

weather should be simple;

I stuck my hand out the

window and felt rain.

Some mornings targeted

emotions should be simple;

I held conversations that took

little effort or breath.

A 'new' means of gathering

information? Somehow

we're all stuck on wrong pages,

though modes are ever advanced.

Red is such a nervous color.

Like the hidden motivation of McDonalds;

eat your beef and be gone.

Sleeping Arms

Shaking hands, dead tingling of extremities;

how often the blood refuses to flow from shoulder

to hand, unnatural. In the mornings, when arms are dead,

or fake dead, or just pretending, she shrugs while trapped in bed;

conversations at the ceiling say good morning, how

funny- let's laugh. What if she loses

them for a day, free to dangle awkwardly

from her body, like imposed weights across

shoulders, heavy with gravity. Arms follow

the spin of the earth, the pace of her stride,

the distance of her wandering.

Flop-flip-floap-tingle twingle.

Are your arms ok?

Stomach of Diamonds.

When we go to heaven, we won't talk about the yesterdays

of everyday life. There will be no time to measure

how long we've been waiting

or not waiting.

When we go to heaven, there will be pumpkin pies and

jugs of apple cider for the drinking, and when

we celebrate commercialized holidays,

we won't feel scammed anymore.

And all the pumpkins of the world will be carved

into perfect faces, perfect candles to fill their bases

with lighters that won't burn thumbs;

they will drop and smash on command.

When we go to heaven, there will be no awful truths

that can not be quickly concluded. And comprehension

of foreign languages will come like native tongues,

as though they were our own.

When we go to heaven, everyone will understand

our essence; excuses and silly words no longer

necessary when speaking to professors pretending

to be monks- or 'normal' people.

When we go to heaven, we wont' have to

dig up boxes we buried to hold memories

we hoped to forget; they were always the

crown jewels in our stash of treasures.

Impending Obligations

Tracing previous paths, retracing them

Again each week.

Another line to walk on.

The piles of lists make me queasy,

But I write them anyway.

Incomplete.

Let's cut out paper circles

And dance around the fires

We create with them.

Keep us warm, oh great

sacrifice of confettied writing.

We burn the evidence of our

Attempts to extrapolate

the trappings of

our minds.

Memories arise and

Dicipate as we discredit

Previous encounters.

Melting in tandem with

Commemoration of the

Bodies we knew, of the

Conversations that reverberate

In our subconscious; voices in

Impending situations.

Audible footsteps approach;

The light- a flickered blur of surroundings.

Then smash of dark and lonely;

Cracking knees and ankles-

An addition to the continuation,

As moments add upon an infrastructure

That struck inexorably.

Presence echoes and overcomes the

Precedence of burdened stride.

Eyes daft, a lack of speculation.

Pursuit of fancy;

Words entangle in common conversation.

Sincere effort to emancipate

The confines, unavoidable

External conjectures.

Footsteps mirror each other;

Soles cross paths in unison

For a time.

Anticipated wave of

Inertia with the encounter of

Another.

Modes of

Transportation on a Sunday

As we walk around the margins

Of this place.

Feel the rain drip

Down foreheads, down

Bare skin and stomachs

To our feet.