maybe you haven’t noticed
but I’m not doing well. 

there are dinosaurs in my landscape
and spiders in my drinking well. 
it’s a metaphor for what I'm feeling
but I see these things. 
introspection over pop-up books
and popcorn in the lap dog
of my history. 
watching the scene play out,
just chillin'. 

and it’s more of what’s inside
than what shows itself in pixels. 
there is no distant signal,
just an outlet
with a neon vacancy sign
that buzzes as it goes
from dark to light, 
losing power from its source. 

we all want to be turned on.

we all want to be the giraffes
we dream of,
necks extending
to the far-reaching fruit
of a blossoming epiphany. 

sun drenched
in the wide open
oneness of iris
and its lesser-known
cosmic explosion. 

stars dying
like fruit
sucked to the earth
by a wanton gravity.
feeding a cycle
and a smile disconnected, 
plucked and dangled
from the out-stretched arm
of a superhero lost
in the blades of his trust. 

let down easy. 

falling hard
to the surface
of a busted ego’s
bruised knee. 

and he’s bowing to what he knows best. 
skinning his ear
on the sword,
knowing least of the blows to his chest. 

and it smelled too familiar
in that chamber
and the scent will stay with him for days
as the universe extends him the favor
he dismantles the moment to pray.

as he resembles the bits of her prey
he disassembles the blissful array
positioned for lingering stains
finding devils in all that remains.

and the kiss
to her face
like the moon
on a chase, 
fleeting night
onto piercing of day.