I will cut your eyes from you
Place them in the waiting dark
An oubliette prepared just for you
They will grow and let us feed.....


Star Toucher, 19 March 2013

He fell in my arms.
Not in love, but fast asleep.
I fell the former.

Something stirs inside its bed
That will not leave its words unsaid
Something from between the shadows
Something ancient, it's in my head
And it's asking me to let it live.

At first, it's just a tickle
But when it's at first ignored,
It soon begins to roar,
Demanding its presence be known
Demanding its right to be heard
And, as a seed, its right to be sown


Inside my head, it churns
And in my heart, it burns
And so it is I know
That I must think this one over:
I must let the ancient creature have its say.

While it enumerates itself to me,
I weigh its features carefully:
How clever is it?
Clever enough, I suppose.
Is it insightful?
Not terribly, but
I don't think this one needs to be.
Realistically, how useful would it be?
Well, it seems that,
Certainly, it could get the job done.

With the verdict now at hand,
It's obvious what must be done.
I must let the ancient thing free,
Though, admittedly,
I'm not sure it'll be too much fun.
But then again, of course,
Fun can't ALWAYS be the top priority.
So, as a farmer in his field,
Working hard to plant the seeds,
I set myself about my task,
Difficult though it's sure to be.

And as I help the ancient thing,
Working hard to become
What it was always meant to be,
I have to wonder
If, when all is said and done,
And this newborn idea has become reality,
I wonder if it's too much to hope
That, because of it,
And so, in part, because of me
Is it too much to hope that we,
That I and this ancient creature,
This new idea that I've unleashed,
Is it too much to hope
That we might bring the world a tiny bit of beauty?

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Go ****** your opinions and your political minions up another ***’s *******, or maybe take that noise, and show some glamour and some poise like the bigs wigs on capital hill, filled with the ideals of the real, reality sets in with a pen on paper and a veto or a stapler to add another pile to another pile stacked high with paper and anger and a wager on top of all that to rate his and her, him and them, freedom or not, this is when the world goes black, back to a rack of what was and what wasn’t and isn’t and hasn’t been or whatever may come, from, whatever’s the machine in charge of the largest country on a scale of humility to ego, eating eggos daily, watching bombs drop and proms go on like any other day, a dance filled way too high with alter personalities and ratchet fatalities. This is another normality in this bleak reality of life. Full of wisdom, full of strife, take your knife and force it down someone’s throat, coat it with words, thoughts, sought after beliefs and chiefs of the mind. Find what’s real, what’s good, something borrowed something bought, this freedom we fought for, blood sweat and tears for, die for, cry for, ride it till its outlasted every past and bold and rash incision upon decisions. Fission fusion and confusion driven, is a country with stripes stars and bars, filled with past and present Heros, veterans, bet again they’re there for the third night in a row, about to row away down te river of blood and dirt and dignity, until the tugging of righteous voices slices the void of sorrow, but that’s tomorrow, today is just a work in progress.