Echoes

Echoes.

Of the nylon nets you cast

to try and search for golden trinkets

polished in soot

And through the yellow pages you flip and

the numbers you dial

to deliberately hang up on one name.

It exists as your diminishing sight

like all the colors your human eyes

will never see.

Echoes.

Of all the radio frequencies

you try to blur within

And the weakened pillars 

of your mind you try to paint

They stay upright and

tight-ly wound to your

blemished psyche.

Impoverished, like me

you try to get your

comfort back.

Like me,

you never had any.

Mademoiselle

Sometimes I wish
I couldn't smell how people smell
How her hair betrays her trust
and sends me a whiff of the sunset fruit.
While my mind betrays mine -
papaya was never my favorite.
Or how her neck still exudes
patchouli, orange and rose and she knows
why she probably chose that perfume.
Floral decadence is my fate and I hate
when strangers on the street
turn my head into a disappointment.
Or how still underneath all of these
she flaunts another, a deeper one.
One so personal it escapes her entirely
and beseeches my sole admiring seat.
Of which I know no other description
but earth and oil and human; just words.
Like heartless critics, they do her no justice.

Sometimes I wish
I couldn't smell how people smell
Would probably save me a world of hurt.
Sometimes I wish
I couldn't love how I love
Would probably save me a world of hurt.