All I need
is to smoke a little ****
then climb out this window on my own

Cause when I fall far behind
the things in my mind
The length of my day day goes awry

As I bleed like a seed
from water thats freed
Can I call you to talk on the phone

So we can hunt like the lions
then dream with the bears
or I could hold you against me till dawn

I do blink when I think
bout how the river did shrink
And all the diamonds I've slipped through these hands

Though now I know that it's true
after stumbling near you
That the ice blue roses can grow

Let me find your lips
softly finding my way to your heart

Let me feel your pulse
still knowing tomorrow may not come

Let me internalize your scent
then drift inwards towards dream filled sleep

Let me go wanting more
more of you as you are in the light of day

Let me hope for more time here
to further understand who I am with you

I could love as the window sees the sun.
Open and Honest.
Simple and Pure.

Just open the door.

I could love as the hanging apple sees the moon.
Bright and Round.
Large and Swirling.

Just lift the curtain.

I could love as the angels sleep and dream.
Vast and Steady.
Hopeful and Engaged.

Just pour the wine.

I could love like the sail takes to wind.
Swift and Lean.
Powerful and Sharp.

Just share the time.

In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles

In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-

A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener

In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need

Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again

The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-

Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day

Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land

The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction

Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree

At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service

Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross

At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads

All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams

Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-

All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler

She evaluated,
assessed and condemned
the mind,
and slights of tongue
but never attempted
to glimpse
inside my heart
which always swelled and heaved.

Those early weekend mornings
spent alone  
while they slept
and the sun climbed
broadly in the sky
were only safe because
of the proximity
of their souls,
her soul.

Maybe the outside
doesn't always reflect
what it can
or should
or doesn't show but feels
in vast measure
the way way a child feels
he's being carried.

Now idle winds blow
seething to be old
and free
of the minds own
burdensome choices
and rhetoric
about the ice
never again getting to melt.

Never being freed
to move from solid state
through flowability,
then wind its way
with out weight
down the road
toward yet another
chance at redemption.

That burn in the back of the throat isn't real.
It's an after effect. A side bar.
Psychosomatic. Problematic. Symptomatic.

Crippled in sentiment and misunderstanding.
Viscously bleeding from the mind in colors.
How lost to have gone and wandered there.

Clearly now in repose, there was no "them" to save at all.
Only him and his strangled mostly dying agreements with the sun.
That remain standing between the here and now in need of repair.

****!