Seafoam Sleep

The cochlear snail is iridescent and shimmery, tide swells it up and the sun gleams along the bodywork. What has been tossed into the splashed glaze? The soft antennas walk out into strobes of cumulus clouds, emboldened by cool shadow.

It becomes a fossil embedded in my temple. When his head is tilted towards mine and we enclose the sounds of the ocean

We go to bed on a pillowtop, we sink in and sip beer foam. I believe this is the feat of a saint in white robes, legs dangling down, toes tipping the noses of fish, every contact eliciting an image of them in the mind’s eye, the angelic koi slipping through their colors, raising kanji symbolism in cryptic beauty, mouthing a clash of phonemes from our bobbing sleepyheads

Zippy tetras flit between our toes, bright bloodfins, silver tips, the ballistics of bullets in the guesswork of dreams, just to be overtaken by goldfish in every possibility of orange, just to think them all dead and floating alongside in a tide of soft envelopes, bright bloom.

The mouthfuls of salted cocktails seized up from the liquid as a luscious froth, expansive fizz, tossing and turning into new drinks

Then as I face down to see through the great depths I loop together reefs of coral in my mind. As they take shape they drop down and amass on the distant ocean floor. A home from which the stampede arises. Arches and hoodoos in a language all their own, to churn up bubbly dreams that burst within the soul of me.

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An Hour

The frost is thin
Its diamond dust
Coats the cars
With golden edges
Of inlayed sun
A morning defined by
Precious minerals
In transient form
From crystalline studs
To shimmering dew
An hour, a transformation

Stacks

My corners are filled with canvases, they file away vivid colors
I see poppies peek and mountains reach beyond the edges
I put away coffee cans full of brushes
I tossed palettes into a wooden trunk, the shadowed lid overtook the flecks of clinging color along their curves
I emptied out glasses of water filled with heavy cirrus clouds
The cloying perfume of acrylic filled the bathroom
I peeled colorful skin off of my skin
I remembered that time I painted my whole body to look alien, I sprinkled on gold glitter and hexagon confetti to the wet paint
I sat for hours admiring it, moving like a slow lizard
Each sleep brought out more and more flesh until finally I washed it away
These stacks of me take up space
They promise to transform over time
They are an external memory
For now they provide an illusion of order and discipline in something wild I choose not to touch

Graphite

Graphite
Has spent countless hours
Caked into your knuckles and
Cast along the length of your thumb
Do you believe in palmology?
The linearity
Is filled in with
Shining silver soot
It’s gleaming like pools of mercury
You tilt the light over the wrinkled curves
You leave fingerprints to the mercy of wear
You leave fine gray ashes to the whims of the air
You breathe
They scatter like magnetite dust
They hug the surface in a desert’s sweep
This is Namibia in grayscale
This is the nightmare of Ozymandius
A hand given to the boundless ashes
Touching the land and sifting it through an hourglass
Wringing the color away
Left only to stare into the bare oblivion

Books-A-Million

The scent of a page turner
It stays warmer
It has a metabolism
It remembers us
When our hands clutch
this fiction
And our cups
Coffee enlivens the font
Coffee envelopes the ideas
Coffee enriches the plot
You hear the grinder come to life
And roar the texture into a fertile compost
Earthworms would adore
You hear steam poured into cream and set down softly
awaiting
You hear the brown packets
Of sugar in the raw
Flicked and ripped open
You envision the rough crystals
Caramelizing into a swirl
In an Americano
You sit Indian style
Shoes strewn in the aisle
And configure the texts into jenga
Slipping the slabs
Away and opening
the sounds up
To the ambient breeze of fingers
There’s the compulsion to turn
And animate text
As a movie, a reel of stills
In motion
Let loose
There’s the fleeting daydream of fort building
With brick books
And sleep spent beneath

The Path

While I was walking down the path

I generated holographic passersby with golden retrievers that lapped up sunshine and put it all into their coats,

the music in their headphones danced over to my music and riddled away together impromptu and in phase, the waves building and ascending above our heads

I fashioned holographic flickers of alien botanicals which displayed the biolumenescence of glowfish, they bobbed precariously over fragile reality in thin layers at times more translucent.

At times I’d walk through them like tendrils of smoke just to find more smoke down the path. Smoke which gradually saturated with color and texture like a painter’s rag in midair

the scent of marijuana was recalled from memory then emanated from my sweat and I breathed it in again and again as I paced in the humidity and the humidity drew it out.

I dreamt of being high and atop a bicycle, eyes watering and psychadelic patterns skittering off the edges of everything. It was as if I was throwing out waves of observation which eddied and pooled against it all. Minute lines of whirlpools delineated the landscape

Quite the illusionist with quite the appetite, rolling through the woods, hungry for the folded crunch of all these leaves, all I need is ranch dressing

I’ll let ladybugs meander through my salad, I’ll eat around them, a kind herbivorous gangly giant with a pecking order in mind and high, high standards.

While I’m traipsing through the commons, bewildered and animalistic, taking too much in the way of sensation, I’ll faint into naps in mounds of clover and drool dew onto heart shaped leaves