behind a closed door
and then behind another
buried under things no one wears anymore
there I am
all 206 pieces of me
collecting dust and
hiding from the light.
and if I had a brain,
or even a bladder,
they would tell me “leave.”
if I had lungs
they would beg for new air.
but I have a heart
and it’s right outside that door
and she tells me not to move a muscle
joke’s on her

I still taste the salt
from the sweat of our friction
your laughter echos in the cavern
where I buried my heart
the flame of your smile
fades with the days
and with it
its warmth
but lend me now
the wool of your words
and I’ll fashion a scarf
we know December looms

no one knows of heaven
the quest for proof is moot
our existential dread cements Risk’s value
overshadowed by Reward,
undersold by humanity,
we trudge along
waiting for anyone but ourselves,
any thing but our own,
to try and prove paradise
but I’ve seen it
it’s here on earth
and it rests behind your eyelids

a blackened matchstick at your feet
your silhouette against a background ablaze
your hands,
as red as the bridge behind you,
you lit this fire-
and you lit the first-
I am grateful
for all seven layers of skin
but if our bridges must burn
I will spare myself the blisters
and swim to you
do your best to break the dam
do your worst to wash me away
I am coming

smiles send a message-
that I am doing okay,
everything is fine

hell surely exists
and I am it’s sole tenant
I am here, weeping

teeth primed for gnashing
as I wince in agony
I grin and bear it

I am dull and rusted
and I have been had
but, touch me
return to me my shimmer
for my value lies in the palms of your hands
and in the creases of your lips
so, kiss me
with your cursed blessing
and stifle me with royalty
so that I may finally
know what it feels like
to be worth my weight in gold
long live the Queen

warm embrace is all I want
for now, but
I’d kiss your lips
if you’d let me.
and while our tongues tangle
I’d **** the air out of your lungs
until you,
shriveled and blue,
had no choice but to stay.
I’d hold your hand
if I could.
I would squeeze until your fingers broke
and
when you ask me why
I’ll lie and tell you my heart isn’t broken
unlike the hand that holds it

We used to be a tree.
We weren’t always a pile of sticks and leaves, remember?
Planted and alive; now waiting for an ember from a flame you had lit somewhere back in November
That flame kept us warm through the cold of December
                  and January
February took you back.
The tree we were was cut down a decade ago, do you recall?
Neat and unfair portions waiting to be burned in a fall years away from when we thought we had it all.
And the unlit blaze begged to burn tall
                  And wide
But it couldn’t.
A seed of yourself rooted again not long after we were chopped.
You grew magnificent and stronger and propped up the nest of bird who made its home at the top.
And who am I to beg for you to be cropped?
                  You can’t.
So I rest in your shade.
temporary visitation, I feel safe; unafraid of the pain that comes with departing the place where I’ve laid.  
Grateful for the comfort under branches you’ve made.
                  You’re beautiful.

a shift of seasons nigh,
summer belts her cadence
the heat of her last breath hanging humid
over swaths of sweaty bodies
her sun ray fingers aim to linger a while
she grips her world with them
the kiss of her light warms, and also warns
of fleeting lips

but pages of calendars can not be glued
and stages of summer can not be renewed

I am a pillar of salt
I did not ask of Fall

burned and blackened far too much
by the degrees of separation
spurned and flattened, hardly touched
but deserving reparations

kicks and kisses meant to confuse
my brain of love and lacking
bricks and missiles sent to abuse,
the pain of words attacking

a dog-to-***** stockholm core
seldom rendering my assistance
logging comments, I walk home sore
done surrendering my persistence

never a dancer,
nor had I intended,
but you crafted me
from board-stiff limbs
and
with a lick and promise
I danced.

from the strings dangling down
from a heart-sporting sleeve,
a marionette I was
you tugged to the rhythms
you pulled through the silence
and against my intentions
I danced.

Balanced is the feline on fence posts in alleyways

She sits
Spanning the gap between two yards
Scanning the gap between hounds and house cats
Cruising the borderline between destruction and continuity

Would anyone tell Cat nine lives are eight lies?
No
For there is much to behold when stakes are high
Reward comes not to those who ponder
Death comes oft to kitties who wonder

The cat with nine lives spends them living
The cat with nine, lives
After all, nine is greater than one

The cat with one life spends it forgiven
The cat with one, is
After all, one is all you need

romance has a catchphrase
“til death do us part”
matter-of-fact, but vague
black and white, yet gray
crystal clear; opaque
the faces of death are many
seldom identified, often present
love can die, so can life
pleasure dies, so does strife
husband dies, as does wife

til death do us part?
of which death do we speak?
death of assertion? death of being meek?
the death of a month?
of a day? of a week?
death of strength? death of being weak?
death of desire? of eros? (thats greek)

til death do us part?
oh what does it mean?
death of a body? death of a dream?
death of ideas?
of values? of a theme?
death of solitude? death of a team?
death of a love not bursting at the seams?

death of connection? death of a spark?
death of compassion? death of a heart?
death of not knowing when death makes it’s start?
what type of death is it when death does it’s part?

Announcing all lives matter is audacious & abusive & antagonistic & antiprogressive - yet amazingly it’s always anticipated. But when signs & songs & screams & shouts of our sisters with skin of a separate shade are shot down & softened & silenced, and when the bodies of our brothers brandishing blackness with bravado are broken & beaten & burned & buried by people with perceived power prescribing punishment by punching & pushing & pulling triggers-

Well
One thing remains perfectly clear
Declaring “all lives matter” is rooted in fear
If all lives mattered, then we wouldn’t be here
and “all lives matter” wouldn’t be said with a sneer

Black lives don’t matter

Mattering means more than media manipulating messages mainly for monetary magnitude or validating various vocations as veracious while these villains vie for votes vainly vanquishing value from humans whose hearts are heavy with hurt and having to beg to be heard. Mattering means more than making memes and multimedia messages post mortem when morally bankrupt men ****** men and their mates for their midnight complexion

So don’t tell me black lives matter
Black lives don’t matter
Black lives should matter
Black lives must matter