Your balloons are mylar, multicolored, ribbons,
floating above your head in celebration.

Mine are thought
balloons.

I don't have the words
to go to bed.

My sleeps are expired
tickets, that I dig from
an old shoebox that used to hide
our maps and blessings.
Now they're tacked to the wall
above my bed where
My sleeps should be spent.

My fingers are ringing.

Since I haven't opened my eyes yet ( Read more... )

My chest cavity feels like it contains 48psi of helium ( Read more... )

Writing poetry with question
marks
reads like squeaky styrofoam.

Those who read, don't
care if your words won awards--
it's just applause from people
who would clap at anything.

Poems aren't
important.
Breathing isn't either.

If your voice
were audible,
I'd invest in better headphones.

My books are open
to new inspiration.

there are points ( Read more... )

I ran out of today,
so I'm guzzling some yesterday
in hopes it'll fill me up.

Bellyachin'.

Jack broke the sky.

Barking his lips off the maw
at the witnesses
and panting
at the clamwater air, nearly suffocating him.

Jack's energy, spent, he epicly WOOFED
out the screen door, into the atmosphere
tickling the cloud
losing its bladder
dropping upon us
and
then came the sparky bowling balls out the sky.

I believe not in ( Read more... )

long, deliberate pulls from this glass of wine are
perfect return-fire against the stuttering slurred speech
that last night, managed to console nobody
in the aftermath of the asthma attack
that cost a boy his life.

rest in peace.