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.

Untitled

I searched for titles in the Sea,
made peace with eroded toes and salt lines,
in an attempt

to be me.

I made a boat with smaller boats
and foil, I searched for cracks
and the wanting

parts I fixed

I broke an oar and sharpened another,
on a piece that I was writing.
The current was strong,

but I wanted to risk it.

I Changed, fleshing out what was
not needed, then searched once more
in the augmented Sea,

just to retire, Untitled.

There's no bullshit in baking.

I put down a book of Twain's just
to read who's new thing
gets me what I want,

now on sale for a limited time.

I asked permission to blink
for free but was denied, then charged
a tellers fee.

With withered pockets and shallow souls
I can only sit and wonder

what a Twain is worth these days-

when no on knows how to
make bread and a buck and a half
can get me fired.

My fingerprints being chosen for me,
I played it casual,

measuring wishes

and deciding to count in months
instead of days, items saved for
when it rains.

There's no bullshit in baking.
You either have it, or your eating

dry cake and lying about it.

I forget to be warm when the Sun
sets early into the bay

of a sheeted window.
Chill bent and blaming

vertigo, or whatever causes
the eyes to avert downward,

causing me to miss you.

I'd call it apathy,
but it hurts to much...

I'd call it boredom,
if I could tell time...

I'd call it envy,
if my contentious boasts of

words spelt vitae.

Curious minds grow intrusive
spines, and I probe what

could have been. But recall
strained voids forgotten on

purpose, when summer
sins proved worthy and

I drowned in your games.

the blankets

We can not blend. Though we're
sitting still, for the

tampering eyes never miss
a thing.

Hand stitched and woven tightly
the blankets sit still,

letting rise a loosened

chatter. I speak for myself,
but in the

givingness of generalities
I sound vague.

An enigmatic mischief of tone,
hooking air and

putting her to cure.

I dare to improve the California
Sun on

bundled words and bonds in string,

selling them to her eyes, and
the trees

that follow. When
I should be the Sea, and

give the tides away.

You taste of barley and
cream. Separate tastes

on your tongue and lips

conclude on mine, a devilish
dance in suit. I feel

your stress, see it in your
eyes, I pinch to

steal it away.

I pirate your
afflictions. Tell them lies,

and suck them from your skin.

stand up comedy

I'm sitting with the self, relaxed
in the stream

of time. Coalesced, repeating,

then beginning again as new.
In fractals, within, between

and in a dreaming state without.
Knowing not the differences,

I guess with words and rhyme
spaces imagined,

using maxims I read.

Drawn into color by
chance, and with a single
smell

I live; breathable moments of

inference. Equal parts shadow
and light can not be factored

into the minds eye without intellect-
guided by perception and

what my fathers father gathered from
his fathers dreams-yet

so many stood silent back then.

The difference now is that we
ignore the moon, looking sideways

and sharing the air not allowed
to breath itself.

A stand up comedy of wills
to be decided for/by us.

Within reason. Growing anemic

and with plenty and chances to
feed. Love and the seeds of

rebirth appear as themselves and
masked...vanity...anti-vanity

combined. And at our will,
as offspring, they are change-

we are changed by it.