breaking point (20170909)

i am a stained glass saint
and you are a high-pitched
tuning fork pressed against
my flattened multiple colors

you ring
i respond
with crack and shatter
fake gems from a pirate
souvenir shop scattered on
the floor

the red ones are my hearts
the blue ones whatever resolve
i kept in check

more hot lead
and patience
will be required

Poem 20150803

impressions of my headache
while lying on my bed with
my eyes closed and my hands
pressing into the sockets

luminous purples and greens
shaped like eggs
floating in a red-brown soup
but not a true black

the lie of blue shapes
and blood colored stripes
and finally a vertical slash
of white that fades as it slices
from top to bottom

cutting is the only truth
in the darkness
until you open your eyes