It was all just
the moment of a dream
walking the tightrope
between the living and the dead
fluctuating between things real
and things imagined
I happened upon
the beginning of eternity
and the end of time

where her eyes hovered
and swirled in colors unknown
they hung there high in the night
wide and wonderful and woven
with the song and enchantments
of the first born moon

her lips dark with magic
and curves of lust and sin
her body was the sky
and the ocean
and the burning clouds
her skin tattooed
with the ink off stars
and the lost song
and breeze of leaves

she moved like mist
and danced like smoke
her movement slow
and deliberate
she shook the earth
and all the things
of heaven and hell
paused to watch

her hands unseeable
and her touch everywhere
covering my skin
and bones and pulse
and the cold dark places
and cracks within
and along my heart

she spoke without sound
in soft whispers
and sang in silent lullabies
in languages of dead gods
and forgotten poetry
she wrote untold fairy tales
into the blood of my skin
in the perfect cursive of flame

she knew the unknowable
and kept the secrets of dragons
and hid the maps
to the never never of forever
in the buzz of a humming birds wing
she knew the truth of sadness
hiding behind the black pupils
of the devils eyes
and the lies he told
to keep back the tears

she invented the art of kindness
and pefected the act of forgiveness
living between the forests
of the lost and alone
and the mountains
where madness sleeps
she is just beyond
the falls of oceans end
living in the breath
of the moment of a dream

To speak her name
is to let the syllables
fall from your mouth in a prayer
of perfect love and desire
to gaze into her eyes
is to fall into eternity
and see all that
is beautiful about heaven
and feel all the temptations
forbidden even in hell

to dream of her lips is a dream
that makes the gods tremble
and the devils heart ache
her skin is made of the lost pages
of soft lust written from the blood
within the heart of fairy tales

she is the magic of witchcraft
and the witchcraft of wonder
she lives under the sun
and above the night
she is the wish of every star
longing to be beautiful

in all of mans imagination
nothing could be as lovely or as sweet
as to have her name fall
from your mouth in every breath
and to have the prayer
of perfect love and desire
wrap around your very heartbeat

She wore death as a coat in December
and slept in until the thirty-first day of February
and she never talked of suicide in June
though if you were to kiss her
in July you could taste the thought
in the tears that stained her lips
and if you caught her singing
to the moon in early September
you might notice she was smiling
just a little
and she was in love with August
but she never let the days know
and she would tell you January
was a waste of time
if you spent it doing anything but napping
she liked to collect ants
from the gardens of March
and wildflowers from the roads of April
and she matched May tear for tear
every time it rained
and she walked with the dead
through November and told them stories
to help them fall back to sleep
October was the season of her heart
and she wore it on a string
she pulled from the skies of eternity
and wore it around her neck all year long

ok, now I get that it's all Fake News,
Like how Bob Mueller got a three-star General
on his knees licking boots,
And it seems weird Heil Trump's
been like a late August 1945 Adolph
been losing it,
rescinding public apologies
again questioning the
birthplace of Obama
reacting these last two days
to all the pressures building
**** it, we all know he knew. He is gonna be the
end of this drama. ****, he tried to persuade Comey
to end the investigation into Flynn. I was born at night, just not last night.
This is gonna be pretty as when Flynn
exited the courthouse
and was serenaded with the
same song he led at the convention against Hillary!  
Lock (him) up!  Lock (him) up!!!
I love to see a hypocrite get (his) due!

It in the lines and curves
of the syllables of her name
written in cursive flames of poetry
he found himself lost
in the hopeless tragedy
of ill fated fairy tales
and humorless comedies
of suicidal love affairs

and the thought of her smile
made him cower
to the shy dark corners
of silence and solitude
where he quietly dreamt
of what fury and flavor
her lips bleed when locked
in the eternal moment
of loves first kiss

and he blushed a little
as she slithered under the wants
of his skin
and he felt short of breath
and quick of pulse
as he imagined what witchcraft
she could weave
with her fingertips
gliding over his skin
and through his ribs
before settling her hand
over his trembling heart
and claiming it as her own

and he would glady
give her his heart
and his sins
and his flesh
and his soul
for what good could he do
with any of himself
but play the part of a fool
in the presence of the stars
beyond the heaven he found
in the endless song of her eyes

and on the blank pages
he kept under his sheets
and cover of the blanketed night sky
he wrote the syllables
of her name in cursive flames
and drifted through dreams
of love under the bloom
and shape of her smile

Blake has written it all and written it
in perfect clarity and beauty
and Baudelaire topped it
with decadence and forbidden pleasures
and  Kerouac took it on the road
and gave it a beat
and Bukowski redefined and simplified
and told all its ugly truths
and got it drunk on beer and women

yet still we sit here poor men and women
and boys and girls
scratching away in our journals
and typing at our refurbished vintage typewriters
and cheap plastic keyboards
attached to overpriced laptops
made of fruit and ego

trying to add to the vast pile of treasure
left behind by Coleridge and Thoreau and Whitman
and Mother Maya Angelou
trying to write ourselves in and out
of the corners of solitude and madness
following in the echos of Plath and Dickinson and Poe

we pickpocket dead myths
and dig up their bones
and dance in the fields of their deaths
and claim their prayers as our own
and play the part of god
as we invent new ways to sin
and feel shame for walking naked
in our own bodies
and daring to enjoy lust
and desire and love

it’s all worthless garbage
and it’s all priceless time well spent
shouting into the void of our meaningless existence
and all the vast emptiness of space takes no notice
no matter who loudly we bash our pans
and pound our fists
and ******* our overinflated sense of self worth

we are helplessly alone
stuffed in overcrowded tin containers
packed tightly in our human misery
willing to sleep with one another
but afraid to look each other in the eye
and see who it really is
we’re sharing our beds with
because we would rather
just imagine it really is love
and not find out if its the truth of love
we’re trying to define
within the fragility of our hearts

we wait till our beds are empty
and our hands are cold
and then we pick up our pens
and strike our keyboards
and lay down lies over the truth
we are afraid to uncover
and we treat it poorly
by doing this again and again

yet it defies us still with its volume and weight
and no matter how many times
are how many ways
we re-write the same poem
over and over and over
the heart stays the same
no matter what color we paint it
red or black or bruised sky blue
what tear lost in the ocean
or ocean trapped in a tear
it remains within the grasp
of the same endless heart beat
coming from the same eternal heart

no matter how many times
a new giant or new lord or new king
or new queen or fool are crowned
and wether they type streams of garbage
or write on leafs inlaid with gold
we will always be connected
by the necessity
of the painful beauty of poetry