As it is in the flesh and bones
  of every man and woman
    and child
and the name and blood
  of every god
as it is within every heart beat
  of every dream
the sting and weight
  and beauty of life
is the essence that makes
  all things mortal
nothing is eternal
  as even forevers
    have their end
and as we breath
  and die
    and dream
from one existence
  into another
we lose and find ourselves
  in and out of time
and as we sleepwalk through
  the skull of death
   and the womb of life
we catch a glimpse of that
  which lives within
  and outside of all
that which defies time and decay
  and in an unending song
  and single thread
we see everything
  is connected
   by love

One was the god
of milk and honey
and the other the god
of lust and love
and when their lips meet
and tasted one another
the sky cracked
and spilled out thick dark colors
of love
and stars blushed against the night
and the ocean filled
with tears of sin forgotten
and in the sound
of their hearts beating hard
beneath their fragile ribs
came songs of thunder
and illustrations of lighting
that painted their skin
with electricity
and wrote the first poems
of pain and blood
and in the wake
and space of their lips parting
the truth of beauty was born

I would like to take a moment
and thank all my brothers
and sisters
that have died before me
those who died
sliding down my mothers throat
racing towards her gut
and their own deaths
those that went right
instead of left
and left instead of right
as we swam and raced
not knowing anything
of anything
to all those that died before me
and after me
And apologize to all the children
I will never see smile
those that died
in my teen angst tube socks
and crust stained sheets
those that died
wrapped in paper towels
and on tissue
and toilet paper
and tossed in trash bins
trapped in latex graves
and swirling and twirling
down the drain
May god forgive me
for living without
Republican wisdom
and law
and legislation
what unforgivably shame
to not make sure each
and every single one of you
did not go to waste
But not all hope is lost
Republicans are working hard
on new laws
and new legislation
and new prayers  
first they will secure you
a womb in women
willingly or unwillingly
teen or adult
consensual or ****
and then to be fair
(because we can always
trust a politician)
they'll be writing
and passing laws
to make sure
we don't casually enjoy our *****
without making sure
not one of you is wasted...

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

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

Sleep with your demons
lie to your angels
****** your gods
for none of it matters
outside the worry
of your existential crisis

so pray if you must
and believe what you will
and most importantly
love and be kind
and be kind with your love
for life is short
and the moments
know only how to flee
continuously and constantly

days turn into nights
and nights turn into day
and its all in the blur
and the turn of the world
and distractions are the trend
of the living
and I can only guess
the regret of the dead

what does it matter to dream
if we don’t bother to live our dreams
what good is love that is not given
without expectations or returns
love is not to be bartered
or bought or sold
it has no exchange rate
or place on the stock market floor
it is only gold in the gift of giving
and the blessing of receiving

so sleep with your demons
lie to your angels
and ****** you gods
and do it all
with kindness and love

Let me lay down in the bed of poetry
you keep underneath
the soft curves of your skin
and let me sleep in
until it is time to dream again

let your smile be the sun
and the moon and the sky
forever painted black and blue
and bruised with the brush strokes  
of love lost and found
and fought for and kept

weave the magic in your pulse
into the madness of my heartbeat
and spill your words of blood and anguish
and sorrow and triumph
into the silence of the conversation
between the color and wonder
of your eyes gazing hypnotically
into the horror and the void
and monsters living
in the dark pools of mine

build bridges between
the broken pieces of me
and the stars you keep
under your skirt
and we will live in our own universe
where everything hurt
has a place to find comfort
and every comfort knows
the way back
from the place where we hurt

where dreams know that nightmares
are part of the stage and the play
and that life even in death
must always go on
and should we forget our lines
we just need to listen
to the song of the leaves
and the words in the wind

we will be the forest
and the bears and the wolfs
and the dragons and the clouds
and the fire and the howls
and the fairy and the tale
and the language we make up
as we write poetry underneath
the beds of our skin

She wears beauty like a sin
and weaves witchcraft out of thin air
and there is an endless wonder
in the emerald jewels of her eyes
and something sweet in the secrets
and mischief in the color
and shape of her lips

poetry dances in the silver white flames
of her hair
and the silk of her skin
seduces with beauties perfection
she is everything of want
that overflows and drenches
every need in abundance of satisfaction

my breath and my blood and my pulse
belong to her alone
and she is a dream within a dream
within a secret kept by the stars
and known only to the time
of dying leaves

ribbons of black velvet
stripped down from the night sky
have me tied down
and ready to be sacrificed
to her name and her image

I lay silent and still
waiting for her hand
to crack open my ribs
and pull out what’s left
of my heart
and stitch back
the splintered and broken pieces

and I feel the touch of her gaze
and the soft hands of her kindness
build something new
out of something ruined
and I feel as if love
has never known ache

and she starts to fade like a dream
within a dream
and she stops for a moment
and gives me a glimpse of eternity
shaped like the colors of her eyes
and whispers in the language
of witches in a voice
with the last warm breath of autumn
and I wake with the taste
of her secrets and mischief
still burning on my lips

Bones rise from the soil
under the death of the moon
and in the pale electric light
you bloom like a flower
and open your petals
against the gentle pressure
of my wandering fingertips
and we sleep walk
through dreams of lust
and on tight ropes over furnaces
forging our translucent skin
burning white with desire
and we whisper in unspoken
languages of desperation
and abandonment
and cave into each others rib
and devour one anothers heart
and with bloodstained lips
we lock mouths
and tie our tounges
and taste the flavors
of sin and decadence
and become something more than human
and exchange
and rearrange
and twist from bodies
to souls
to stars
to prayers that make
the gods tremble and quake
and in its last breath
the moon etches our name
in the stars of eternity

Remind me why we sin
with the pressure of your lips
tongue tie me
to your sheets
and whisper long syllables
of slow honey
and sting me with your gaze
meeting mine where
fear and pleasure mix
and strip me of my human name
and sacrifice it to the love
of pleasure you keep within your ribs
and show me the stars
you keep below your skin
and tell me of the scars
you wear proudly on your heart
tell me no lies
and I’ll give you my truth
and with a silent word
and a burning kiss
let me remind you
why we sin

We all live to the same heart beat
we all dance step by step
we may have our own tempos and rhythms
and some may leap
while others may roll
some prefer hardwood beneath their feet
and others sand or grass beneath their soles
but the blood is all the same
no matter if the pulse is quick or slow
we all started with a breath
and we’ll all end the same
and it won’t matter to the ground or the fire
if we had not but a penny in our pockets
or crowns upon our heads
death will kiss us all
and spread her mighty wings
and it may be paradise
or it may be something worse
or it may be simple oblivion
lights out
bye bye
and what does it matter
to worry about the then
when all we have is the now
what a waste it would be
not to live this life as if it’s our last
as if it’s our only
because too late will be too late
and what a tragedy it would be
to throw it all away
without living it for love
to love openly and kindly and generously
to love endlessly and foolishly
and completely
and if it isn’t love we’re living for
why would we dance at all
why would our hearts beat
if not to live a life of love

Let's lay down on a blanket
made of stars and the night
and will watch life pass
like clouds in a dream
made of me loving you
and you loving me
and we will collide and connect
and burst through
our sins and the sun
we will lay heaven to waste
and burn hell and its gates
to rubble and cinder and ash
and will make fools out
of desire and lust
and wear them like a second skin
and you'll be my moon
and my prayer
and my sleepy time song
and I'll be your pulse
and your rhythm
and your bedtime story lullaby
and we'll sleep
and we'll dream
and we'll love
on a blanket made of stars
and the night

Heaven my sweet girl
my beautiful muse
is not a place in the sky
or in far and distant dreams
it is the place I have seen
in the dark endless pupils
of your eyes
and the place my heart sings of
when beating to the rhythm
of your name
it is the way you touch
below the surface of my skin
and carve a moment of eternity
from the dying moonlight
and burn it into my kneck
with the smile of your kiss
and it is only fools love
and a fool that loves you
and it may only be pretend
or words trapped in a book
never to be read
by jestets or queens
and if it is only here in fairy tales
may I never be real
other than these black ink stains
on this lonely page

****** your gods and let them die and fade
paint the sky red with their blood
and their books
and their fables
break down the walls and the gates
that separate heaven and hell
and plant seeds of hope
in the destruction
where there ideas once bloomed
and rebuild the world
in the image of love
let love be the only language you speak
let kindness be the action of your breath
let generosity be the blood of your heart
help those in need
as a gift and not a burden
and in the face of truth
what good are gods
that don’t believe love is all we need
to die
to dream
to live
to hold heaven in our hands
empty of the need of prayer
or redemption
for if all we do is love
what could be found as sin
as we ****** our gods
and give ourselves to love
and only love

Tell me what does your heart see
when you say love
what do your dreams make
of this thing we call life
where are we going
where have we been
it’s not a matter of how long
but how well we have lived
what good is tomorrow
without doing something today
but an endless repetitive
reproduction of doing nothing
again and again
and time wasted is wasted
unless it is wasted wisely
with laughter and heartache
and whiskey and tears
and the kindness of strangers
tell me what does your heart say
lets build a better tomorrow
by starting something today

She answers the prayers
of the lonely
and tenderly sews
and stitches broken hearts
and gives them a new coat of paint
and teaches them to laugh
and play and sing again

She is kind and wise
and knows more secrets
than all the mermaids
and the skulls lost at sea
and keeps a garden made
of flame and poetry
hidden in the heart
at the bottom of the ocean

She is there for the lost
and the miserable
and the dead
to guide them home
and carries the light of hope
in the emerald green of her eyes
full of elven lore

She was the first to have wings
and spread them endless and black
against the sky
to give the day
and the tired
a time to sleep
and dreams a place to bloom

She carved the moon and the stars
from the beat of her heart
and placed them high up in the night
and you can hear her voice
in the lullabies of leaves
and the song of the wind
whenever you whisper a lonely prayer
from the pieces of a broken heart

She was the art of beauty
perfected in human form  
and I was a helpless wanderer
lost in the pages of her fairy and magic
and her name was the birth of poetry
and her kiss taught flame and fire
how to dance
and her smile was the moon
and the sun and the everything
and the heart of love
beat in her chest
she plucked a black feather
from the night
and taught the raven how to fly
and the humming bird how to sing
she planted the first tree
from the last tear of spring
and carved the first leaf
from autumns skull
while telling stories to dragons and their young
and gave them a butterfly
with a map hidden in its wings
should they ever need to escape
to the safety of dreams
where she would be waiting
to teach starfish to fly
and planets to swim
and sculpting hearts
of wonder and clay
for whomever may need
something new
for something broken
and it would all be a dream
of a dream
and in the end
it would still be a love
of a love
as we all get lost
in the art of her beauty
perfected in human form

My heart was lost until I found the paradise
woven into the wonder of your eyes
and the dark spheres they surround
painted with the endless colors of the night
and I was frozen in their warm velvet gaze
and entangled in the dreams
laced throughout your porcelain cream skin
and the perfect elegant curves of your form
and your smile would make
the devil blush and stutter
and the soft touch of your lips
would cause the stars to spill out poetry
and prayers made from flame and seduction
and I can only weep to know such bliss
to see you dance under moon
and sway like a serpent that hypnotizes
to charm its prey and steal its soul and breath
and I am helpless as an infant
and I hunger to taste your lavish breast
to feel you pulse push against my tongue
and your heart beat in my hand
what heaven could learn
if it took a moment
and spent eternity
in the paradise and wonder of your eyes

She is the soft sultry perfection of beauty
and has the charm and  seduction of poetry
from forbidden realms
and he wants to read every word waiting in the blood of her kiss
and trace every slow syllable
of lust and pleasure echoing from her throart
her heart beat is the song the gods make sacrifices too
her skin is the silk canvas of loves endless dreams
her eyes could swallow the sun
and outshine every star of the night
the curves of her hips and ******* and smile
make every moon blue and envious
she teaches fire to dance
and faries the art of mischief
she is neither here or there
and is always part
of anything that is beautiful

All I want is someone with a broken heart
and a tattered soul
and a kind smile
that is still willing to love
and we don’t have to love each other specifically
as long as we both just love to love
because facts and details become boring
and bodies age
and the same jokes might still be funny
but the haha’s have lost their edge
and isn’t love all we are
what are we other than the answer
to the last prayer falling
from the lips of a dying god
gone mad from being alone
in the emptiness that once was
and spit us out of the womb
of its dream that felt the pains
of first becoming aware
and we drifted and floated
and slowly covered its corpse
and wasn’t it beautiful then
when love was a singular vibration
and thread that connected us
one and all through dreams and death
and then somehow we lost touch
and became complicated
and advanced and civilized
and addicts and abusive and abused
and divided and conquered
and molded and cut and boxed
and domesticated and foreign and distant
and love became a postcard
and a postage stamp
and a card for a holiday
for this cheap replication of living
for this miserable thing we make out of life
so give me your broken heart
and your tattered soul
and your kind smile
and bore me with the details
and I’ll hang on every one
and we’ll get old
and laugh at the same joke
till we’ve fallen over the edge
and gone mad
and we’ll bury ourselves
in the corpse of the god
that gave birth to us all

when we believed in fairy tales
and promises of forever
were promises that
were supposed to be kept
and instead we end up reading
the last pages of the chapter
written in lonely tears
and the world keeps turning
page after page
and suddenly it felt like
we had too much time on our hands
when just the other day
we wondered where did the time go
and now today it just moves too slow
and we find more comfort
in being alone in a crowded room
and prefer our rooms at home
to be empty and haunted
by ghosts of the promises
we should have kept
because life was easier
to believe in
back when we were living it
like characters in love
who lived in the pages of a fairy tales

I write about what I believe
and believe in what I write
and I often write fairy tale like poems
about love to girls and women
who do not exist
because love is an easy thing
to care for when it is make believe
and a much harder thing to tend to
when it is living inside a heart
that is inside a chest
that is covered in soft skin
and under a mouth with warm lips
and a gentle smile
that is kind enough in the morning light
and beautiful even under the darkest thoughts
and fears of loneliness
and if only I had known better
in my youth these fairy tales
would be biographies instead
but the sad truth is sad for a reason
and I still haven’t found a cure
for stupidity or shyness
and in the hour of solitude
I find comfort in the keys
of a dying typewriter
where the ink sputters and spits
onto the page coughing and choking
to hold back the tears
as I write another fairy tale
of the make believe
but still have trouble believing
in what I make

I hear you're lonely in a room
in a hotel with the broken pieces
of a heart and you’re not sure
what pieces are yours
and I have to wonder
if any of them are mine
because I was there
just the other night
feeling that way to
as I walked the streets all alone
and if I had stayed another night
would we have beaten fate
by sharing our desperation
under blue moon tears
and careless whispers of whiskey
stirring dead dreams and cold ice
and found comfort in a drunken haze
of naked lullabies
and hard kisses of soft sin
and forgotten what damage love can do
as we pass the night pretending
not to see the loneliness
reflected back from each other’s eyes

Do not fear the beauty of death
the black song birds of grey skies
the passing of time
that become memories only the grieving
and eternity will remember

Do not fear the song of the dying
for we all are singing along
even though from time to time
we pretend to forget the words
and dream the foolish dream
of vampires and eternity

Do not fear the mortality
of bones and flesh
for nothing last forever my love
for even time will crumble and fade
and become a memory
only the grieving and eternity will remember

There is nothing to fear in the end
that is not worth living through
and it is only as real as we imagine
so why not imagine a life so full of love
and so beautiful
that death weeps to spread her wings
over our lives we lived so well

There was a hint of love
and the smell of poetry
and the promise of eternity
and the taste of life
sitting on the edge
of her lips
and he was frozen
as if eternity itself had paused
to take notice
of the silk curves of her smile
and the gardens
of heaven and hell
that waited within her kiss
and she was no farther
than a dream away
and his heart trembled
and beat hard against his chest
and cracked his ribs
and he could not breath
or speak
as he helplessly fell into a trance
lost within the grace and beauty
of her eyes and the magic
that danced within
their swirling colors
and dark pupils
and she moved like the snake
and the charm
and he was wrapped
around her fingers
and a puppy in her lap
and she carved and reshaped
the broken and lost pieces
of his heart
and taught it
new languages of love
and the secrets of dreams
and that there was no sin
in acts of lust and pleasure
that start with a kiss
that taste like life
and promise eternity
and have
the scent of poetry
that leaves hints
to the ways
of finding love

She was the first sin made of flesh
when no act of love was lewd or wicked
before men and gods
invented shame and virtue

hers were the fingers
that carved the heart of every star
and whose kiss set their fires ablaze
to burn eternally
in the vast emptiness of space
to give us something beautiful
to look up and pray to in the moments
we can find no beauty within ourselves

and beauty is within her name
and the colors of her eyes
and lust and desire burst from her womb
like a wild garden spilling over the universe
to give life hunger and reason

and she carved out a small piece of her soul
to give time a heartbeat
and set eternity into motion
and she is as old as she is young
for she lives outside
of the rules of deterioration and death

she is endless and kind
and you felt the warmth of her breath
in your lungs in your first gasp of air
and you will know her again briefly
as your take your last
and hear the sound
of her gently black wings carry you off
to the place where stars are born
and she carves you into a heart
to float in the sky
and comfort those
who need to find beauty
somewhere outside of themselves

I wonder if you know
that it’s you dancing between
the space of the ink
and the words falling
onto the pages
of the book of poetry
being written in my heart

I know it’s not love
but you can rise the ghost
of my dead heart
and set fire to the dormant blood
below my skin
and though I will never feel
the warmth of your breath
along my neck
I will hear your name
in the echo of things unspoken
in languages only heard
in forbidden realms
where sin and love
have no shame
and pleasure is the only prayer
for fools who dare get lost
in the dark pools
of the pupils of your eyes
and find themselves carved
and inlaid into the eternal beauty
that can only be found in you

She had eyes that never aged
and was beautiful in ways
that would never fade
she told lullabies to dying stars
and collected their last tears
and mixed them with her own
she comforted the long lasting branches
that wept on every tree
as the seasons of life and death
saw every leaf grow and fall and fade
hers was the heart of kindness
and her hands the weavers of generosity
she knew far too much
about suffering and sickness
and all the heartache life had to offer
but she never cried once
over her own pains or misery
she had too much to do
and too many to care for
to not smile through
the horribleness of it all

There is a lie in every fairy tale
and a secret in every spoon
and both usually stay well hidden
from the time for breakfast
and the hour of bedtime stories
but there is a place
within the telling of dreams
that an old wise witch
of strange young beauty
will read your fate
with only words of truth
that she stirs out of a soup
made out of the alphabet
of the comfortable lonely sky
and feed you slowly
with the spoon
of her mothers grandmothers mother
that has been handed down
from the first star ever born
to the last name
of the last god
yet to be named
or prayed to
and in that instant
you will know every secret
and detect every lie every told
and you will be a  baby
and an old man
and a young girl
stealing her first kiss
from a shy boy
and a butterfly and a snail
and the leaf that feed you both
and you will be
the last tree on earth
and the first flower
to bloom on Jupiter
and the death of Mars
and the heartache of Venus
and you will know
who made who first
and learn that that knowledge
means very little when compared to
the virtues of loves
true heart and reason
and the witch will close your hand
and seal it with a stolen kiss
and smile and laugh and giggle
and give you a mischievous grin
and you will understand
why spoons keep secrets
and the importance of lies
that hide in fairy tales

She wore her lips in perfect shades
of red and sin
and stood there in dreams
of crushed black velvet and lust
and had him tied down
with soft silk pink ribbons of love and desire
and he his heart beat hard against his chest
and she slide her hand between his ribs
and plucked it out
and held it between their mouths
and asked in a hushed whisper
of words that hung
from the stars of a prayer

“What is this for...  
if not to dream...
if not to live...
if not to love?”

and she smiled wearily and weakly
and then placed his heart in his hand
and said to him

“see... it’s still warm...
still alive...
you are not dead....
not beyond hope...”

and with the sound of wind and wings
she was gone
and the soft velvet dream
faded to cold dark black
and he was alone
with his heart in his hand
still beating
still warm
and he put it in his mouth
and swallowed it
along with his pride and his shame
and closed his eyes
ready for the pain and the tears
that would be waiting for him
as death is inevitably in life
so is waking from dreams
and his time with dream
was now at an end

War hung himself
from the electrical cord
attached to his power tie
and plugged into an outlet
in the cracked night sky
and not a single star did weep
and each did fall to sleep
and with weary eyes
now peacefully closed
did dream and dream
and as wars blue and gray face
did dim and fade
children now did safely play
in fields where no bullets flew
or missles soared
and hope like flowers grew

I am desperate for an intellectual conversation within a locked gaze where no words are spoken aloud and while staring into the void within the dark abyss I see a smile that says
“It’s ok... I have monsters too..”

The 13th hour will be the hour that it is too late
the hour that we will have gone too far
the hour that we have done too much damage
the hour we will all whisper with dread
  “My god, what have we done?”

The 13th hour will be the hour
that the gods and the sons of gods
and the stars and the spirits and the ghosts
will not believe our prayers
and will not speak to us kindly or of redemption
for we will not be able to claim
that we knew not what we did

The 13th hour will be the hour
that mankind despite its genius
despite all its innovation
despite everything beautiful
it could become
instead used that hour
gave that hour
to the hearts
of hate and fear and prejudice
and man
if any are left
after that 13th hour
will have to pay for his own sins

She was made of a language
no one could hear
and hand written in perfect cursive
by the scripture of the stars
and made from the sea and salt
of an ocean lost in a tear
and the color of blood
gave her lips all
of its crimson and rage
and she was there
when dreams took their first step
out into the void of the time of nothing
and she weaved his heart
from the poetry of leaves
and his bones from the past
before death had a cloak or a reason
and his flesh from
the soft skin of her kisses
and she tied the string of his heart
to the beat of her own
and no matter the story
or time of eternity
they would find one another
in the pages and between the covers
of the dreams they would have
and the life they would share
as they would invent
and discover and write
and rewrite the books of love
in the language no ears could hear
or eyes could see
but ever heart would feel
in between their first and last beat