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Description
What if the World was made up of the art of nature
we air brushed with our wing span of life?
Just think; all the wind in your face
on the long car ride Home, tangling
your hair every once in a while.

What would it mean to you? Would it be
life-like manikins of skeletons
in your closet? Blue moons
above your walks on the wild side? Serration
of your living on the edge every once in a while.

Could this mean drawing a hot rainbow bath,
beaten black & blue beneath the weight
of such cold, transparent truth? Wading in ripples
of life, up to your neck, no, above your head
in bursted bubbles & life goes on, go with the flow,
fighting the current & stepping in puddles, wetting
your feet every once in a while.

Maybe it is the color of a mechanic's fingers,
an oil change for your leaking valve pumps.
The nothing-white of toilet paper, stuck
to the bottom of your soul. The bloody nose
of those thumbing your diary, pinching your nerves.
Spring cleaning of your rib cage, dirtying
your hands every once in a while.

Imagine it is the sound of fingernails & your spine
is a chalkboard. The cranium swell of cinnamon,
origami face of lemon. The smell of hospital
in Vitamin C orange. The daredevil fear of sun & garlic
for a vampire, spicing
up life every once in a while.

For me, it is non-refundable word choice,
lingering stench of bullshit with the windows up,
taste of my own medicine, used bubblegum
stuck to the bottom of chairs. It is the view,
the echoes of heat in the moment from a room fell silent.
It is the touch of an angel, fallen, & His palms, & it's ok
to cry every once in a while.

Description
What if the World was made up of the art of nature
we air brushed with our wing span of life?
Just think; all the wind in your face
on the long car ride Home, tangling
your hair every once in a while.

What would it mean to you? Would it be
life-like manikins of skeletons
in your closet? Blue moons
above your walks on the wild side? Serration
of your living on the edge every once in a while.

Could this mean drawing a hot rainbow bath,
beaten black & blue beneath the weight
of such cold, transparent truth? Wading in ripples
of life, up to your neck, no, above your head
in bursted bubbles & life goes on, go with the flow,
fighting the current & stepping in puddles, wetting
your feet every once in a while.

Maybe it is the color of a mechanic's fingers,
an oil change for your leaking valve pumps.
The nothing-white of toilet paper, stuck
to the bottom of your soul. The bloody nose
of those thumbing your diary, pinching your nerves.
Spring cleaning of your rib cage, dirtying
your hands every once in a while.

Imagine it is the sound of fingernails & your spine
is a chalkboard. The cranium swell of cinnamon,
origami face of lemon. The smell of hospital
in Vitamin C orange. The daredevil fear of sun & garlic
for a vampire, spicing
up life every once in a while.

For me, it is non-refundable word choice,
lingering stench of bullshit with the windows up,
taste of my own medicine, used bubblegum
stuck to the bottom of chairs. It is the view,
the echoes of heat in the moment from a room fell silent.
It is the touch of an angel, fallen, & His palms, & it's ok
to cry every once in a while.