Xanadu
 

When I die the bugs may not taste me at all. If they do, they may taste the honey of my words; sweet and light to ensure I won't be disliked. If they travel farther, up to my mind or down my throat, they may choke on all the harsh words left unsaid. Down to my lungs they’ll taste the sweetness of roses, rich musk of jasmine, and the creamy underlying spice of lilies. Lower to my stomach they’ll find it hollow— empty from the need to look like eve

From leaves of grass, to dappled canopy. A natural breath lush as a hummingbird’s sheen. The sweet tang of starfruit on sticky, tinged tongues, dripping from mint-freshened mouths. I’ll be here in the sky when rain falls, skipping through ivy entwined in celadon tiles. From seaglass found tumbled on lakebed shores, I flow as kelp through current. Evergreen elegies and endocrine endogeny, laurels resting in victory, listlessly. The kelly green glimmer of a bottle at sea– wash

From the canopy of the trees, To the ground down below, I’m a garden filled with parsley, peas, and pears, Providing for those who take the time, and care. Unripe fruit falls to the ground, left to fester, Mold on the peels, returning them to the ground. A beautiful tragedy. Winding down a river, Winding down, winding away, Bringing poison from a pipe, Left oxidized by its purpose. I’m emerald light spilling from a window, A Christmas tree illuminating the snowy, silent lawn.

You see the world in present tense Every day, every sound, every noise or melody And the fresh white noise buzzes awash in your ears but you do not grieve There is no right time for requiem nor would you know if there was Follow the rabbit, memories of measures down the folds of your mind Fleeting notes disappearing by the time you catch up Some distant dirge deteriorates in the depths, there Something familiar but unknown from where Perhaps birdsong, perhaps anothe

How the moss carries the salty water. In bulk it sags above the mud earth—releasing a mere trickle of collected tears. Dropped with a splash, clumps stream in the pool, shifting en masse— parting at once from its figure while engulfed entirely by more. How the water holds the cold, shivering threads. Feather tendrils ripple to the song of swelling tide.

He peered through a spot wiped from his misted bedroom window. Flashing across the gaping black above was a streak of glistening light. It was a glowing hand reaching out to the singer, to the writer, to the runner, to his heart, gradually dimming— But he’s just another dreamer boy. The debris of rock turned to ash, a desolate disintegration. The condensation refills the glass.

I am getting so close to the sun Of another world, my waxen Wings melt and I fall down Into your shadow. I am Breaking free from Your force because I am failing To see the gravity of the Situation. Let me fall into The black hole of my mind Never to be seen again. All I have is time and space, But that’s nothing if you Don’t have the money. Who knew that reaching The moon would take so Many numbers? I just want To be shot out of a canon to brush The rings of Saturn. Let

The blood has stopped dripping, muscles have begun to contract involuntarily. The mind and soul have left this plane — only body remains on the Earth. Still, the flesh and bones sing, their songs spanning across chasms of forgottenness. Chips and healed fractures act as composers, stringing together the music, each note a visible event housed within the decomposing skeleton. Fungi spreads and insects crawl through the corpse, adding voices and new renditions of the classical

All of the sudden we all fell into the ocean too. Our home became a house, Submerged into the water. Your clock fell silent as if the world ended. Your chair stays reclined and your glass is full. Our stem wall crumbles and rusts, All it can do is cry for help. What did remain, the garden you meticulously planted. Blooming more than ever— Your favorite, Violets.

As sound echoes She begins to think mellow, Camouflaging Like Gecko. Wrong people wrong time as The scenery splurges To divide, her feelings justified. Parallel angles between Two familiar faces Chosen through determination. Campbells for dinner Every night till dusk, Unthawed like nighttime grunts. Kieth Haring, large emotion, distributed like A sweet maple cherry. Boston tea party, Hundreds thrown overboard, Gritty like Smithsonian's herbivores. Heartaches like a Ha