There was something about the last train out of the station,
Or the last smile on your face,
That ensured I was lost,
Somewhere between the future and the pools that lay ever so calmly in your eyes.

After years of trimming sides and cutting edges,
There was little to give,
But much space for you to settle into,
Somewhere between my lungs - heart - and the shattered glass and mounds of ash that held each in place,
Little is it recognized that no home truly begins with a solid foundation,
Only after the home is built does one have the luxury of forgetting the uneven ground that once served as a rocky home to those unready to develop.

We speak often of polluted land,
But rarely of polluted intentions,
Laced with memories that destroyed the body more than the drugs themselves.

Restoration of the heart sits heavily on my mind,
Some parts of the disarray staining your finger tips,
As I realized you did not hold responsibility or a simple solution,
Simply the means to an end,
That felt much more like a beginning.

And as you slept calmly,
I wondered how violently the waves of your ocean,
Crashed into rocky shores,
And in what places you let your feet sink into the smooth sand,
What waves lapped at the edges of your soul,
And how long would it take for you to realize that the only waves you could control,
Were those created by the beat of your heart.

And how heavenly it would be to drown,
In your presence,
Caught by the very essence of the waves of smoke and sound that flowed from your very being,
Do you not realize how the rivers tend to the ocean?
How the moon loves the ocean so?
And what peace it brings to the wanderer to discover the depths of another's ocean and the edges of one's soul.

Enraptured,
in the day break,
and how paper breaks,
under two thumbs only to be healed by broken lips.

Cocoa Butter & Coconut Fibers,
healed w/ banana leaves and nicotine,
smoke - stirred- fried
healed.
mind-body-soul
in cosmic rhythms,
that beat in ethereal waves,
caressing suture & stronghold alike.

pointless.
are hands.
which hold
w/o
being held.

nicotine patches
             &
pineapple fanta
3:54 am --- malibu sunrise
overdose
on optimism
-it was probably the pills again-
but promise me
that the paper will read optimism.
for theodicy is only debated
by
the faithful fool
           &
those hardened by fate

*** for me,
No.
I mean come for me,
At 3:14 am when the last brick has crumbled,
In the facade of surety that you are left to rebuild in moments that seem to allude the hands of time,
Unsurety filling a void that continues to expand like the gaps in your teeth.

*** for me,
Come lost and broken,
Like the hands that will caress the parts of your body and soul that even shadows will not touch,
Let finger tips trace words across your lips,
That the muses have let flow from every inch of your body but that which would allow release.

We are at the edge, love.
But the gods are not permissive of a beggars heart,
And we are not finished,
For the tears are not falling,
And nothing about love ends in emptiness.

Come for me,
For this entire existence is fertile and futile,
As are we,
Meaningless but in passing.

*** for me,
With eyes open,
For there is some beauty in destruction,
And some pain is necessary,
Look at me with the intention to leave or stay,
And you will have known what it means to come for me.

Learn that love comes only in manipulation,
Learn to tease between pain, pleasure, and anticipation,
*** for me.
Then leave.
Leave trembling, leave questioning, but leave whole.

*** for me,
Knowing that pain is as inevitable as absence.

Come for me,
Knowing that my body language will beg you to return,
Before words ever will.

*** for me,
Because poets, prophets, and scribes,
Beg to be lost,
In the manipulation of warmth,
And the movement of bodies,
That is willing to **** the embodiment,
Of cold memories and broken homes,
Birthed from ever so fertile and futile hips.

*** for me,
For the only home that may exist outside futility,
Rests between lips, thighs, and the restless movement,
Of the inversion of absence in the soul.

Come for me,
For healing that the original sin that still drips from your lips,
And anoint the sweetest ******* of love,
A salve for broken, bruised, and decorated skin.

Body covered or bare,
Come for me,
And realize that when the eyes open doors,
It is the body which chooses when to enter and exit,
*** for me.

One cannot effectively love without words,
And pain is not permissible but in the absence of love,
So when cautioned against the love of a poet,
I must ask if you have tasted the bitterness of ink wells long run dry,
Felt the weight of lungs unable to expand to produce sweet parables of temporal immersion.

Every inch of land charted by arthritic hands,
Unable to pull wonder from what can only be systemic from a moment of pure ecstasy.

Yet,
In every action lies an unheard metre,
Energy captured in free verse,
As her name lie on pursed lips,
that caressed shaking thighs,
that bear different origins than the name they were bathed in,
Thighs that would know not the sound but the echo and presence of love,
When all the paper has been burned and the inkwells have all run dry,
Only the poet's tongue will trace the shape of forgotten words across lips and thighs alike.

The lonely will be lulled to sleep by the tales of galaxies that rest in their veins,
And the oceans that caress the corners of both eyes  and soul,
Long after the poet has retreated,
To build temples and worships other muses,
That sentiment is not gone.

The poet's love is neither temporary or fleeting,
But sporadic,
Making love to the moment in its entirety,
For there is nothing exclusive about a moment when written,
The deepest corners of compassion,
not so subtly displayed,
In strokes of tongue and hand,
Teased across the page in ******* and organic soliloquies.

The poet's love was never meant to be private,
nor painless,
Only permanent,
The wonders described never fading in the poet's absence,
Only continuing to ignite a flame that continues to burn.

Dissolve.
Not into my gums,
But into the palms of my hands,
Finger tips no longer rubbed raw,
Nor calloused by tender repetition of motion,
That led my finger tips along a bruised spine.

No longer reliant on blades or bumps,
To witness rivers flow,
into empty streams,
That babbled only of the conflict between blame and forgiveness,
A family of no relation,
Roots no longer struggling to reach.
For they too had learned the wells had run dry,
And had long ago learned to look in other directions.

Je ne regrette rein,
i regret nothing,
except permitting the illusion of love the bled into your eyes,
later to leak from wrist, lungs, and gums the same.

An ever fleeting reality,
Too sweet to hold for long,
Gold honey,
Agave,
And sweet streams ever flourishing,
With Vision blurring at its edges.

The unease swims,
Amongst the seemingly clear waters,
We knew this was coming,
We meaning the person I believed myself to be and who I was at any given moment.

When the hare leaves its burrow,
Only to be returned by natural order
In all its physicality,
To which memory and tradition poured libation over a feast to the futilness of all new and old,
We are beauty to the blind,
Needless to all,
But artists and the dead,
Omit all hope,
Make love to the whorish nature of illusion,
And you will birth the most beautiful, still-born wisdom,
To the future of a ****** nation,
And the namesake of the forgotten love,
Born in ignorance,
Heir to the hare,
Blind to all but the burrow

Dripping like liquor down the throat of a man who has never been loved,
Clinging to a reality sweeter than any of those attainable,
A semi-conscious turpentine,
Thicker than molasses,
And darker than coffee beans,
Cocoa butter lips and thighs,
White sheets,
Atoning for white lies,
Hawaiian Snow,
Mango Swishers,
Hearts encrusted in sea salt and gold,
I'll tie you to my bed posts,
So I feel less alone