I've laid my claim on No Man's Land,
And yes,
There's really nothing here.
Just dust, and the occasional vagabond wind.

Yet,
I've made the dust my friend,
And wind my accomplice,
And the arbitrary my entirety.

I've bent her sultry whispers into rueful screams,
And play them on repeat while I sit here.
Like music, sweet music.
Then I play them backwards,
Giggling as she speaks in desperate tongues.

A merely wicked amusement you are, Love--
Contrived and bitter love.
If you be the devil, then surely I'm your demon.

It is my conviction
That life began inside of a dimly lit corridor.
Not with a flash of brilliant light,
Inside of the creator's grand hall.
Not even in the decency of a simple room,
No.
It was an accident that happened when the Gods tripped over their robes,
Simply walking
On their way to the heavenly mess hall for coffee and a drag,
Shaking the proverbial gold dust off of their feet
So that it slipped through the cracks in the marble
And crystallized in random little patterns,
Wherever they happened to step.

Beauty, some are bold enough to call it.

And I'll find it on my face sometimes,
Those golden remnants,  
When the weather is warm and I've eaten a little less that day.
I will linger in my mirror to see where they've landed
As I whisper sweet nothings to myself,
Wishing I were worthy of these repercussions of
The Great Biochemical Accident.

But once in a while,
Someone will come along who tells me that I'm wrong.
Once in a while,
Somebody has enough gall,
Somebody has enough, call it grace,
To peel those golden freckles from my face,
And to hold them gently in their palm,
Perceiving them to be precious.

It's amazing,
How words will only actualize our realities
                                        Fully                   ­               
               When they are uttered
                                   Aloud.


And once those unspoken realities transpire,
It's as if the all the air in the world gets caught in a primordial vibration,
                
                   And those vibrations                                                       ­                     
Break the internal balloon                                                
Detaining­ veracity's ink                    
Painting our insides like the canvas of Jackson Pollack.
                                                        ­       Seeping through soft tissue.
                                          Spilling into chest cavities.
         Sloshing around.
           Saturating the hues of our flesh.

A single utterance
Resulted in irrevocable emotional
Infiltration:

"I'm in love"

*******...

After you finally fell from my tongue,
Your ambience
Expanded.

You drop hints like hot potatoes,
But really ***,
I don't want fries with that.
This kinda burger comes fresh, not froze,
On a warm wheat bun,
And trimmed of extra fat.

A high class meal prepared for two,
And so,
This platter don't come cheap.
Can't pay? Find some other meat to chew.
If so,
Delicious tastes you soon shall reap.

First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.

Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying *******.
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****,
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.

Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.