Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I watch oxygen expand
Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.
God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.
below me, kids are
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.
When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
My time is 15.
I am round cheeks
and naked with definition.
I don’t know how to hide under
the thick film that buries me later.
He is built with reddish, muddy hair.
He flares and expands in size,
greater than any other young torso.
I watch him hold hands with Grace
and Innocence, I listen to him
sing with rebellion and defiance.
He strums, and he strums me along
to the quiet, unexposed nights.
My time is 16,
and he has left. He has found liberty;
liberty, or abandon.
I have found a stuffy old pharmacy.
I sit on sidewalks eating tiny tablets, remembering
abandon from times: 8, 9, and 10; it is
like I am with him.
3 months later, he brings back the East Coast.
His air is accented and tired,
thick for me to breathe.
He smells like 15, though, and he tastes like
the cigarette we shared on the night he left.
He brought himself and his guitar
just to me,
and he strings, and he strings me along
to the quiet, prudish night for two more weeks,
and then he is gone.
Now, I listen to the music,
to motorcycles drive by
my dark basement, with strings that
I will learn to play later.
Not yet, it is not time for me yet.
Right now, the film is building.
Right now, I am being defined.
Abandon has timed itself, lined perfectly
with my over-exposed skin.
I need him.
I need him.
and the world will never agree with me
and nobody believes me.
Are you just out of mind? Or have
you lost bed, too?
I’ll lay you down with straw and
help catch your rogue.
The passage to sleep
is in a cottage, as bare
as birthed privates, down a
cottaged street. The seeker has treats
in that darkness! The darkness
where we meet.
You collected loneliness
in places that I jog in. I
watched you paint,
I watched you slice your flesh
I watched you crawl under his
sheets at night, to
ward off the darkness.
Still it comes, a happy thief,
painted like a victim,
no matter your age, it never will
Though, your flowers bloom and
your pumpkins grow,
though you scrub light into
it never will outgrow you.
I taught you a language, a long time ago, a
protection from the shadows,
before sun marked your
before your lips touched a sugar breast,
you were my garden,
you were my flower;
a light, all of your own, to light your darkness.