The plot is made best with a twist

The plot is made best with a
twist, settled neatly behind

a point, neasled between few
words and empty lighters.

I remember there being more
light, but it was probably just

the bite weakening, flowing away
like New York, or the Earth before

we descided it was ours.

The scent of your neck makes me
sin, but thats not the point. I liked

it when we drank last, you mentioned
your plans and I thought you were

pretty. The image of you between
me and Jersey makes me remember

when I was a child, fighting trees with
sticks and calling it war.

Guilt is clever, like ashes leaving its mark
on your jeans, and catching the last wind

uptown, staining the Bay Bridge until Spring,

when we all get to feel the Sun.

books in the corner, thoughts in the air

Sitting still, unafraid, and spoiling the game of
time, the words lay,

lounged, paper back lined and breathing.
I count the curled corners of pages turned,

as Fall turns leaves, writhing into Winter, and another
one tossed

into the pile.

I easily forget the words written, winged from the writers
woes, stamped for a lifetime on the pages I read;

but the soul of it stays in mind, whispers, guiding my
thoughts and busy fingers.

There's Books in the corner and thoughts in the air,
reading is the easy part, the hard is to care.

Vague is the sound of confidence

Vague is the sound of confidence. Stealing
cliched tones and buying time form
the only guy who sells it.

Vague is the opposing alternative to silence;
it keeps the breath fresh while
clouding the air.

Vague does not care, after the moment
has passed, who's life was just
changed.

Vague lathers, forgets to rinse, but
always repeats.

Vague never disappoints.

Vague should be shaken before used,
and chilled when not needed.

Vague is the color of the Sun, when I
am asleep, dreaming of coastlines
bleeding from the stars.

Vague are we in the night.