Demur

eyes of the mirror looking out -    you found a sovereign soul      a wound up entity   shelled within needless shame and passing through his hands the clay of the young - the silt of man       pictures for frames    lost in flicks of light   burning up the night... eyes of the mirror    why must i dress  the sadness of your image in shaky-eyed night convocations   just to look through you again        and       again  then close the door the hallway dim      and throw my body into every lonely bend     until chirps in the morning   say to armor in sleep  for to wake       and to fight - eyes

you were farther away than the tail end of the day   curled around the butt-end of a burnt-out gesture   i saw the wiser wisdom in you when you were idling in the backseat   looking for the brightest reflections among the most prosaic of puddles moments made you a story-teller   the apples of eyes   the five-second fever forgetting names and making fame   veiled in the morning   unknown by the afternoon i was the dim-lit drug in everything

                           god   my laughter cringing   i saw my eyes twitching   it went right  over their heads   i am a mess of words when i come home. god   the stranger in me never speaks   a ruffled waking a whitened image   but lovingly slumbers and questions me   it is not enough.                               god   you put them behind microphones   the timid boys                   standing answered with eager fates   the shapes of hands clasping                                        around soft notes composed of serrated scenes.         god   the rest   is somebody else        breathing on my window.

Such a sun in December breaking my wake, missing my morning. Because I am poor in progression, I lay subjective above my covers like brittle bones among graveyard stones. I lay obsessive below my lovers. For the sake of something, I flee from the harbor of a house with glitter-eyes and aspirations, but the world retires its fires, stirring the still creatures of lost bravery from class rooms and tired celibacy. I am afraid of my mask and the mouths it grimaces when those calibrated souls aim for stares.

      A solemn ghost is hovering among                all of those discontent figures,                                             looking for                                                                       something surprising                                     in the unnamed specimen of fame under unsteady eyes,                                                          pleading among vacant sighs.      Predation will start to laugh;              brain-burning questionnaire                                      seems to be seeping                             deeper into the regular reasons like backyard borders agai

              I am tied to bedroom corners,       lapping the walls with the backs of arms     that carry the thoughts readied and locked  by abrasive persuasion and wall-poster visions.         I throw my eyes to the brightest lights,   the tie-dye tempers softly combing their glows             with permeable fantasy.                    An immune memory               chokes on vulnerability.     I become bold with green notes and red words,  flowered like bottled veins in a high school play,          cooked with sappy lust and a must.                    A vulnerable actor                  chokes on insecurity.    

there's aggressive accents in the sheets, night long nuisances all naive in tomorrow and the rhythm is jumping out of shower heads taking the tuckered and tame out of me permitting eye-rubbing and stares of indifference, scanning solace in teas and coffee beans, warming cold feet against static screens, waiting for the sun to greet heavy blinds and bleed the wall in tangerine lucidity before machines make their moves on simplicity.

it's only when night birds relay foggy themes — jaded bench warmers and wintry apathy, then patriots of names drill into identity before i mistake sayings for mistakable meanings like brights on darks, being more than the senses bearing, writhing in asphyxiated sheets since responsibility is worthy of benevolence and worded surveillance. please let your guard down without knowing what i know. please don't read my grace on my face when i come home.

give me that window-pane look, some sovereign innocence to float over our walk-by words discouraging those post-card verbs. hold me when i pace in lonely resurrection, blending the bled tomorrow and clotted yesterday, folding the context i pocket in syntax. save my placid hours, flowering pacifier dreams, erasing the crooked line between fear and forever.