Mon Vert

  My birthday is coming Yet the good movies are gone And I do not sleep well And everything that goes through My mind Is held by a thin thread What is good about a speckle Of blue We are underwater It is the dark merely the vell The hideous truth The small glare of light Being robbed.

  Someday When I want to live again I will paint people Staring at me Getting mad at me or maybe just the Overlooking sunrise The soft weeping in the breath of the air the creaking of wood Then while doing this I will relive moments in the flesh The silhouette Between the shelves the smell of books And their rotting pages The old smell of everything Damp Wet ferns After the rain The muddy tracks The blue boots my Aunt Used to wear the crackle of the antennaed TV Savor what may never be.

  He speaks Very carefully Almost silent That you cannot miss The spirit of each word For every pause is a hum And his eyes will speak Truthfully And his words red Just like the color Of his heart raw He is very much alive That it steals the vibrance of the teal sky As light reflects His pureness And boredom The mind somewhere else Like the The mouth That seeks something Far as the blood felt In-between gums the awry air becomes stolen sunken And dry When words tires the taste awfully strung Long Impatiently Said Rotten And disguised.