Poems

The Eighth 

I am apathy, born from a shrug and a yawn. 
I build my convictions on a spider’s web and my worries on the dew. 
The troubles of this world do not concern me, 
neither do the ones of the world after. 
I warm my back on the fires of injustice, hate, and strife. 
Do not search for me at the fray, 
for you will find me on the outskirts. 

Colors and Numbers

My subconscious is a odd place
Full of nooks and crannies and gorges and valleys
A place best visited in slickers and boots
To trudge trough strands and trains of thought
Of quotes and quips and days and dreams

Associations made linking things that should not be
Flavors for places and smells for times
Textures for people and colors for numbers.

Zero you can see right through
One is yellow, bleached desert sand
Two is red, a feverish riot
Three is blue, a calm day at see
Four is brown, a dry river bed’s hue
Five is neon blue, a sight down Virginia Ave.
Six is orange, a peeled root’s tint
Seven is green, Douglas’s outstretched hands
Eight is earth, revealed behind a mossy carpet
Nine is light, spliced into each

Letters borrow the numbers dye
Changing attire as serves their mood
E façades as seven, till joined by Q
Where dawns the royal violet
Till returns to its letter board
Black as all around it.