boats, boots... just-a-bit

Days 10, 11, 12
The Paradox of Stasis

eternal sunrise like a radish
pulled up beneath us
lustrations of iris revolving on sun sinking,
the trees are hungry,
carefully swallowing
i'm basking in that slow smile
the twins are joyous,
nestled right between the forever day and night
perfectly straddling the line of black and white
a promise pigment in the glassy waters,
reflections, permeated twilight
an immortal midnight garden to revel in
i'm living in grayscale
a timeless, unspeakable beauty
it seems my whole life,
i have dreamed of the plenary contradiction
an equilibrium preserved forever
in caressing shadows, a faultless harmony
irony: mismatched socks,
opposites worn, freak accident breathes new purpose
no combination of colors could rival
this love.
suddenly it is clear:
how boats stay afloat on the surface



imagine.
music box lips , boot songs
he unzips them and kisses them
no other pair of these would do
ensnared in maroon draped heavens:
ladybugs need cocoons, too



young bride hypnotized by smoky eyes in the dark
refusing to remove gazes
prolific pools she loves to flounder in,
bobbing and levitating like the boats
buoyantly balanced, weightless
in waters that sparkle and glisten
(with pretty thoughts)



two stigmas on the dirty earth
one pure, simple, colorless stain
the creamy white of a blank slate
the coconut of childhood remains,
and he says maybe it's a sign
that those times are meant to be left behind
this is my reminder to him
that the waves of memories are never too thin to float in
when an icy treat becomes nothing more than a rainbow smear
in the concrete jungle sea-
a bright, multicolored sugary tarnish
while perhaps slightly less edible,
the beauty is not lost to us



swaying, wavering roots
crawl from the underside of each ship,
stretching down to greet the murky depths of sea,
dancing
anchoring each with gentle coaxing, treasures
only the ocean could retrieve
we watch them soundlessly,
the glowing candied-skin sky melting,
dripping down onto his chocolate dipped spun gold head
we are not trying
to decipher whether or not they are sprouting
from the reaches of the wet abyss
or whether heaven is growing downwards



choking on grit.
and my turtle peaks his head above the ripples
fresh faced from the bottomless pit
i come up for air simultaneously
to find you floating there next to me
you pique my curiosity from ocean floor scavenging
and when i retreat to the blackest chasm one more
it will be a journey ventured alongside
what i had all along been looking for.



euphoria is a
red seesaw dance
cheese and cheap wine dizzies
coffee shop-church chalkboards hold no patience for chance,
(no lack of vitality in the complimentary colors of this dried flower)
instead,
the scrawled signs-
they emanate a soft, sumptuous power
like two lovers that join as one being
for the very first time,
sweat clad and love drunk
now ingrained permanently in their respective minds:
fusion.
of the grandest daedalian type


more sensual than salad finger food,
fingerlicking traces.
more breathtaking
than the melding of freckle geometry,
handmade paper heart faces.
he sees me.
sunflower throne..
freeing.
more beautiful at night,
yes.
you are just my kind
(of picnic)