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Beautiful Humans

                                                               

                                                               

                                                                   

                                                               


Beautiful Nature

                                                               

                                                               

                                                               

                                                                 


Beautiful Literature

Tokyo Motel           My faith has failed me
         Your words are like the sunset
         Please take me with you

                      -

We're always looking for something worth seeing.
I like to picture a young Franz Wright reading his life
sentence to a song bird and a hungry cat.

You're a poet. Welcome to Hell.
  -Dad

My father was a welder and probably more cynical.
(Another reason why I still throw salt over my shoulder.)

If I could, I'd ask him if he meets a lot of
pen junkies in the wherever of the afterlife,

and nothing else…

                       -

I promised an old friend that I would tour Japan with him.
We ne                                                                ... "Someday that's where we'll meet, at empty four-way intersections or on half-deserted streets, half drunk and twirling about ourselves to the sounds of sleepy violin sonatas. I'll kiss the taste of your cigarettes and promise never to waste my fervour on the mundane. We'll meet in Bedlam and Squalor, in churches adorned with the legend 'Ichabod,' scrawled above the double doors. We'll flee, laughing, from the suede-denim stormtroopers and call ourselves the Seeds of Moloch, the children who never chose and never quite made their way to the Inferno. For all our lust and hedonism, our burning tributes to the outlaw Pan, the underlying benevolen

Apartment Number 157 Smoking, I think of how beautiful you are
as our bodies lay tangled after
wreaking havoc on what
was once a nicely made bed,
all because I couldn't help kissing
you on the way up the stairs.

I am in love with the way your head leans back
while running my lips across your navel and then
meeting your mouth with a lovely groan.
Ah, and the way passion next overwhelms us
as I pull you closer, so love does not escape the sheets and
enter the open air with nowhere to go but out the window.

Let us stay like this forever, for
I will never tire of staring at you fresh out of the shower
with wet and curly locks that tickle your sho                                                                Gypsy  Perhaps she'll drop out of college, use all her bank account money and take a train to New York. Or maybe Seattle, for she likes all the cafes, the art, the vintage. Perhaps she'll return to California and live with friends and tell her parents that she's still at university.

Yeah, that could work. That's one way to disappear.

Maybe she'll meet a rich, married man that will take care of her as long as she's good with her tongue and her curves. He could take her to San Francisco where being strange is the norm, and she could find home in old houses smashed together for equity's sake.

She'll grow fond of small towns with simple heroes an

The Times Only on days like today do I feel that those days at the beach were worth writing about,that those nights spent sneaking in and out of windows were something I should have taken pictures of. And it is days like today that I most miss the ease of it all. Most miss the invincibility I used to have, and how I could make a flower with a cigarette and carve your name into the back of my hand with a blue sharpie.

I think often of the Easter we lost ourselves in a forest of green, but found ourselves with two empty bottles and barefoot, and had to call my brother to pick us up at the corner of Pine Lake, and how we laughed as we pieced together the                                                                Poets All poets are dilettantes
she said -
arrogant,
careless,
thinking only of themselves,
telling women
their eyes are a jealous mistress
or their hips a psalm
to tame the new world -
words all worth devouring.

And they are such unruly creatures -
cads,
rogues,
crude with their verses,
not dotting their i's
or crossing their t's,
their impudent rhymes demanding
revolution and other deeds
of faithless living -
wielding their pens in ways
that spark thought
and other unnatural acts.

But they will warm your beds,
my daughters,
come that first gloss of February
lowering on your lips
like winter wheat;
and teach you that bea

we are a sunrise. we are no more than a softly whispered if.

we are smoke rings in the dark, soap bubbles on the lip of the water. we are bright eyes and shy fingers touching through the veil of introductions. we are racing side by side down separate book aisles, not calling out to one another but comforted in the echo of each others' pulse. we are strangers who aren't strange to one another at all, promises scrawled in folded pieces of paper, slipped under door cracks in the middle of the night.

possibilities are glowing iridescent between us, eyes overbright as we dance circles around one another. we're shoved into rooms filtered with sundust, lips praying                                                                no one really knows They gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow."  He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.

It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.

He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.

It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes -   


Beautiful Art