...Our bodies,
clothed,
our souls,
naked,
our Selves,
exposed,
under the glow,
so sacred,
the glow,
of the deep red moon,
in it’s eclipse,
in our eclipse,
more than epic,
everything all of it,
love crazy as a lunatic,
this is honestness,
in all honestness,
all of us,
involved not embroiled,
incense,
and oils,

timeless heirlooms of pheromones,
undertones of unknowns future plans postponed,
the core of our chromosomes covered in ecstatic moans,
the world our throne ET finally phoned home,
emotions amplified no microphone,
thrown into our sensory’s cyclone,
zoning in the zone she shook me to my bones,

bones,
ashes,
dust,
memories,

amnesia memories,
for as quickly as she’d appeared,
she vanished in an instant,
gone like a forgotten prophecy…

from The H Trilogy Vol. 1
available worldwide
∆

drenched in blue moonlight 
I admired her through
the sheet of smoke
in the gap between us

Carefully I
swayed and our arms
greeted with a gentle graze


"I tend to see the glass as half empty–
sometimes completely."

Sudden words drew me
like water from a well

A cigarette pinched by
the uneven crescents of her lips
pulsated, her sallow face
awash in a delicious red glow

"Either way, it's a beautiful glass,
isn't it?"

time nonexistent
She fumbled another
to a faintly open mouth
I lit it in silence

Waves painted the hull teal
the Sun colored in my skin,
while wind brushed strokes against my cheek

Water, tinged with foam and salt,
splashed my face
I woke up;
there were tears on the pillow

dedicated to Vicki*

winter wind
blows down the hills
is caught up
in the knuckles
of gnarled trees
blasted
barren
reaching for the sky
reading the
Braille
stars

snowy branches
whispering
what
those books
filled with poetry
have taught
the roots
which reach
down
to
underground

streams


when
Springtime
educates the sun and
teaches it warmth
then will the
roots give life
to a spreading canopy
of new life

buds burst forth
with the
fragrance
of snow wind
and the
sweetness
of that
reservoir
of

tears*


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/9/2016

Sometimes I feel like that broken china doll
you found lying in a garage sale last summer.
Blackened eyes, busted lip,
and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.
I oftentimes struggle to remind myself,
it's not my fault I ended up this way—
—for even the most avid of admirers
will occasionally drop their toys.

Slipping, I can't hold on
Sliding, on the icy pond

Falling now, without a rope
Desperate, I can not cope

Screaming, without a voice
Insanity is not a choice