SeraAmadis

obsolete sequestered events   muse about what they cannot comprehend, empty beds are grateful for the rain, at least marble floors are cold as   fragrant Lilies are eliminated from plaster mansions and frivolous pillow cases threaten to vomit our   belongings into garbage bins and abandoned cars parked outside of our apartment are perfect irony to your tangled hair as you sit in   the chair by the window, feet on the furnace as you touch the   glass and it peels like paint, wind becoming rain as the   chair collapses in fragments of charred skeletal remains, red hats falling off chests   as the paper holds more  

At the instant light reaches its equinoctial point, axis uninclined, autumn breaching summer's dead glare, a pale star would seek borrowed claim, gauze-wrapped, thin, bearing oft-missing words, lightly bundled dreams; pressing galaxies of tears into the waiting chest of night. They would fold that light, the two, into its own pale reflection, to twist new patterns into day, written, etched, onto indelible sky.

you think of airplanes as blue, as if sky is contagious, as if i might be coated even there across their fixed forms. really, i love birds more with their free wings costing not a cent to cartwheel across. what am i, you ask. i am pigment swimming in the open valleys of your eyes, himalayan poppies infused with helium, spidersilk veins and dialogue breathing dusk and maybe i am just a color, but you are just a beautiful boy; the world needs more of both.

        I can still see you, but only on nights when the solar system tunes its lyre to the soporific key of the Conscience unwinding, as to drag the streetlight revolutionaries into the deepest sleep-deprived stone-cold hypnosis—so when they see me slip in and out of alleyways en route to your splintered door they will whisper, look how that gone little firefly eats her own wings, and I'll float on independently, carving orchestras out of the starlit sky to play for those fatal characters, as I flutter to you oh so dependently to what I'm dependent on—       

                      Bitter lack of                       familiarity                       lack of clarity           +¬ a cent on me.                      &

[1] today i waited and waited and waited, and you never said anything beautiful at all.       [2] today i clicked 'i'm feeling lucky' on google. the screen went blank except for two words  - are you?       [3] today i saw a man planting daffodils beside the highway. i asked why. he told me yellow was the color of happiness.       [4] today an old woman patted my cheek with a wrinkly hand and told me everything was going to be all right, after all.       [5] today a boy i see everyday on the ten-fifteen bus to c

VIZ                      tech    2012 hooray            Rich                  2 planets       2009 era 2019      2016                               &

dear glass girl: there are rainbow prisms in your eyes, but the sun forgot to illuminate your smile today.  you're clinging to the haze of "what if" so tightly, your cheeks have hollowed themselves against your teeth and you've wrung the skin from your palms.  please, stop worrying.  he's not like the rest. bring the diamond-shine of your soul to the forefront and hold up your head.  in less than two months, you'll be out of this dust-painted town and back where you belong.  with him. you've f a l l e n short this week on smiles, but that ring on your left hand isn't there for dec

I dive into swimming pools and search for seashells. There are pearls scattered across its bed but no one bothers to go that deep. 'The kid's mad,' says the lifeguard, but he keeps his gaze close to me. I caught my goldfish there, and brought it home cupped between my palms. I take flight into volcanoes and wait for flame-feathers to drift upwards to warm my skin. They say it's dangerous to sit on edges and cliffs but then they'd never tried it before so I don't listen to them. I just like the gentle heat and the yellow, orange, red, brown and black concoctions swirling around deep inside. I come here often because it makes me free. I

So that's nice. I like feeling like I'm a capitalist pariah. I'm a light that floats upon a current of shadows, reflecting on the glossy white wall as a nickel of water. Razor clouds of slate fold over me. Their lines block and reveal my listless glimmer. I let the lines pass into law and pass away. The curtains wave backandforth and back as the world exhales in whispers. I'm that little light, that bullet hole of sun. I stay through inattention, passively blinking at shadows and at the constant migration of the sky. I'm a small blue pierce of aesthetic lax, reflecting off a puddle of polished diamonds. I'm going to take the Kerouac freeway