don’t worry a tangerine smell is around the corner,
you might have left it there, that
along with the sunshine, the creek,
and the picnic you had packed for the two of you
The food, well the food, it’s been 20 years
what remains is dust
and it’s stinging your eyes
Before boarding the plane
my step-dad gave me some sudden advice
“Don’t accept free food samples”
I suppose being poisoned
is a fear that I had yet to acquire
but at last here it is
I sipped from a glass of wine
between a marble statue and concrete
on the third sip, I found myself upstate
in the closing part of winter
there I was, staring at the ceiling fan
trying to convince the man in the red wool sweater
to paint over
all of the thin black lines
I had painted on their door
I felt deeply and without remorse,
so much so,
that I was stamped with a label
In a moment of sole
the mind is lost,
the logic is disregarded.
What is left is the warmth of every single nerve in the body,
The light, pulsing
storm like but balanced, with no
and I can’t explain fully
because my thoughts weren’t
I remember his eyes
and feel something.
The center of the universe,
a black hole,
looking at me, fully
With his entire soul.
I see my own soul
such a strange feeling.
It might be the dark brown color
A mahogany chair , in a room full of
overly cushioned couches.
Hearty, and timeless.
It might be a figment of my imagination.
His eyes were the
Everyone else becomes a burr.
It all still remains a mystery to me.
Eyes like a sip of hot coffee.
I’m bored and internetless.
This is the perfect opportunity
to read all of the books I have been
meaning to read
all of the poems
I have been meaning to write.
Maybe, I’ll just sit here quietly
Why must I constantly make
The trees, just are,
Seen or not seen,
they will continue to radiate beauty
with no need of acceptance
This is how I should go through life,
not needing approval.
Like a tall, beautiful tree,
deep in the forest.
A writer just sat in front of me
I knew he looked familiar as soon as
he walked through the door.
He recognized me as well.
With a dispirited look and an outfit composed of
different shades of brown.
Dark brown vest, light brown shirt.
light brown jeans,
and light brown dockers.
White socks are the only contrasting aspect of his outfit.
That and the notepad he is holding
while keenly observing the other people in this starbucks.
Pen in hand and looking for inspiration.
I wonder if he knows
that he is currently my muse.
As he sips his coffee,
nothing is being written down on this notepad.
Perhaps I should stop
for a second,
and let him write.
I wonder where his thoughts are.
Are the people in this starbucks
to draw any inspiration from.
Something has already
been written down on his
On the first page.
From another day
It looks like a poem.