**** haikus, they ****.
Even the good ones **** *****.
**** haiku writers.

the stubborn silence of mountains.

You are earthen. I am fluid.

As my soft May rain
kisses the willow's leaves
before falling into your warm soil,
the sweet breath of spring
and new beginnings soothes our tired, wintry pains.

The water feeds the root.

My head upon your chest,
a cloud filled lake on a patient mountain.

Memories of our moments,
rocks on a riverbed,
worn smooth and beautiful by time and silt.

Your lava burns a path,
a fertile home
where future fields of wheat will see no tears,
before finally,
with a fiery sigh,
you come to rest in the salt of my ocean.

The ancient root drinks the timeless water.

The mountains nap. The oceans breathe.

A moment,
a look,
a hand on a leg becomes
a small stone of your love
skipped once,
twice,
threefourfive times
before settling to the bottom
among a thousand other memories
polished smooth.

The willow branches caress the shore.
The lake rests in the mountains embrace.
Rain and roots, earthworms.

At last, at last.

on mine, after what should have been
the ultimate dealbreaker.

What is it about us?
I can only speak for myself;
I can't say no to your skin
My dearest, my darkest love.

Nobody but you has seen me as exposed,
as vulnerable.
Nobody has hurt me
like you have, with surgical precision and professional detachment.

I have my transgressions. I've wounded you as well.

Yet even with fresh blood on us,  we find a warm place to quietly lick our wounds together.

I do not write to create beautiful passages for others to enjoy,
Or for you,
Or because I feel the world needs  to hear what I have to say.
The world doesn't care about me.
I write not because I think I have a shred of talent.
Not  because I think I have profound wisdom to share.
I write about dogs and ****** and drinking and ******* and loving and dying and ******* and bleeding.

I write for the same reason I love you,
I have no choice.

Saturday.
One more Saturday night.
Gone, long gone are his nights
of wild and reckless
mischief and
debauchery.

Fear not for our hero.
Fret not for he has fared well
through these centuries.

Now, much wiser
and with more
than a little
practice  
under his belt,
he plans his
mischief and debauchery.

It is best that way.

Look, my love,
at the sliver of moon.

Luna smiles red,now.

Look beloved,
look at me
as you would the moon,
your fair gaze reflecting only
the beauty of the eternal love
I hold for you.

I forever am your midnight.
You are forever
my dearest,
my darkest love.

I could win the lottery,
find the fountain of youth,
discover a cure for cancer or diabetes
or war or death or stupid people and

none of these things,
not a single one,
would make me feel
as happy as I did

holding you in my arms,

your skin on mine.

I try to be light.

I attempt, in vain, to be
carefree and frivolous
when it comes to
matters of my heart.

I am unable, at crucial times
to keep the lead
out of my words
and my actions,
making them seem
unnecessarily weighted .

I know my behavior sometimes
frustrates you, my love.

I know that in trying to love you,
in trying to help you understand the
deeply analytical,fiercely passionate,
and obsessive mind and heart of mine,
I succeed only in creating a chasm
of misunderstanding between us.

I overwhelm you
with my emotional intensity.

Then, after I have pushed you away,
when all I wanted was to have you closer,
I cry out in selfish anguish,
"Why have you done this to me?"

I manifest my worst fears.

But with each silent, unspoken
step you take in retreat,
with each measure of distance
you recede from my shore,
know that I will love no other
so truly, so deeply.

I make no apologies for loving you.

I am but a man, scarred and wounded
from others before you.
I bear scars from you,as well,
as you do from me, and from others.

But I am alive now. We are alive, now.
These others have not extinguished
the light of hope burning so radiantly
in my chest,
and the wounds
we have given each other
are but scratches,
to be laughed at together
on some future fall afternoon,
as we sit in our warm bundles,
sipping coffee,
eating see-through waffles,
and discussing our day.

I am alive now and
I am learning how to give you my
love in a manner
that is easy for you
to accept and reciprocate.

I am learning how to
accept your love, so precious,
offered to few.

We are alive,now.
Alive and learning
and healing and loving,
with one another.

This moment,
Now,
I hear your soft voice.
The one you use only for me.

I feel my arms around your hips
as you stand **** before me.

I smell you.

My god, your smells!

I am listening to the London Symphony Orchestra
perform Carmina Burana.
One of your many favorites.

Tough morning. Enough said there.

The air is cool and a slight breeze is coming through my windows.

I hear the incessant traffic on cuming street,
the fans I have in my bedroom and living room,
the music of Carl's primo vere,

and your voice.

It whispers to me across centuries,
softly, sweetly.
No trace of sarcasm
or acrimony.

It speaks to me of mountaintop cabins,
of quiet moonlit ponds,
of autumns last victim slowly falling to the ground
to join it's cousins.

It speaks to me of music,
timeless and universal.

It does not harangue, or plead or spout.

Instead it soothes me, caresses my body
with an undeniable comfort.

This moment,
Now,
I feel you deep within my core.

You are safe there.

She

does not know

how empty I am,

without her.

My forced absence

drains me.

I miss her skin,

her hair,

her laugh,

her strong legs,

her screams,

her whiskey and mint breath,

her fingers on my chest,

her smelly ******* dog,

her cluttered kitchen,

her horrible wall sconces,

and her muscles flexing underneath me.

I miss the way we fit

so well together

in her small bed.

I miss the nervous

anxious feeling I

would get on the way over

to see her.

I think of the quiet moments we

would have after

making love, when she would twirl her hair,

and give me a new

perspective.

She was unhealthy for me,

I knew that going in.

That doesn’t change

or heal

or fix

or fill

my emptiness.

and I am drinking the wine I bought for you,
and never gave you.
I am watching the flowers
I never gave you, wilt.

I said I would love you,
no matter what.
I meant it, then.

I still do,
but you do not know that.

The windows are open in the sunroom,
where you never sat.

I am slowly becoming more comfortable
being without you.

Slowly.

Aching skin,
Boiling blood,
My lust consumes.

Hands long for your throat,
crave to be wrapped in your hair,
pulling you closer. Close enough
to feel your heat, to smell you.

My lips, Ah my lips.
My lips and tongue implore
for the wet heat of your folds.
I must taste your flesh
before I wither from attrition.

Union.
The singularity of ingression,
transcendent of all earthly attachments.
Sublime.

Release. An unfettering of all thought,
leaving only feeling.
A divine conjunction.

And after, the only sounds our breathing.
Still as one, unencumbered by thought.

We rest peacefully in our oasis, sated.

As long as you breathe, I will inhale you.

And after you are finished breathing,
when you have uttered your final words,
I will speak your sacred name in my throat.

I will  visit your grave perhaps once,perhaps often, not to say goodbye,
but to cry and laugh with you.

I will keep your memory alive in my bowels that held your love,
in my mouth that kissed your brow,glistening with sweat.
in the soles of my feet that  walked next to you in the market,
in the tips of my fingers that caressed your hair out of your eyes so many
times,
in my nose that captured your ever changing, ever lovely essence,
in my tongue, that called your name during our volcanic passions.

I will have your love in me still,
kiss your brow, always,
walk with you, forever,
sweep your hair, eternally,
smell you, endlessly,
and speak your name until the end of my days,
when                  is the last word that crosses my lips.

I will never love another.

The smell of cloves in her hair, fluid.

The taste of myself between her legs.

The pale skin of her leg next to mine.

Her soft moans sliding into screams.

Joy Division wafting in the background.

A pure and honest evening.

Three hours of bittersweet passion.

Driving home, the distance between our beds

lasting a second.

Arriving to spiders, waiting for a nocturnal meal.

Sated, grateful I have had my morsel.

Dawn creeps in.

is covered in tattoos and
likes to drink expensive whiskey
with mint leaves
and fruit slices in it.

She has the strong, sturdy body
of a field worker and is the only
woman I know who looks good
in bright orange.

We share fajitas and
chimichangas while
listening to indie folk music.

She pushes her stomach out
and asks me to
name her fajita baby.

Her mastiff eats from the trash
while we wrestle and scream
because he knows this
is his only chance
at leftover rice
and guacamole.

Her face is the
last breath of Christ
and she tells me
she hates me
while pushing me off
of her
after I make her come.

The dog and I
both know the truth.

If my eyes should betray,
pluck them from their holes.
and if my hands deny you,
cut them from my arms.
and when my feet turn away
from us
smash me at the knees
for I would rather be
blind and lame
than not be yours,
in your garden of grey blooms.