The navy blue evening sky cut out by the black silhouette of trees. The moths fluttering under the moon. The way all trees bristle one another. The courage when on the first date she laid her hand on his knee. The comfort of hollow churches. The emptiness and then everywhere something. The anonymous scent of ripeness in the air. The feeling of energy realizing itself.

Those nights when the stars
are hidden by clouds
as big as your heart.

receptivity
moon yawns out day
flames flicker the dawn

con-scious-ness
rises in drowning
and bubbles up again

“here now child,”
it echos, “just feel feelings”
and the adult resists

seasons color change
blue years to red seconds
head into sunlight heaven

divine intuition speaks
out of in our hearts
essence of expanding

a single lopsided wilt rose
the metamorphosis of
a dreamer who is not here

old man in the old cafe
he reads all day
long pauses pleasing

soggy California
a deer framed by headlights
predator and prey

water cleanses me
rapids under rope bridges
wind chimes of I, I, I…

the more I relax
water cleanses I of me
the more you will see

my smirk in the light
like waves lap on distant shores
****** mermaids; higher kites

Burn the way money burns,  
clear into ash our feelings glow.
You could write a book through me through you.
You could be my father when winter is snow.

Me, like some precious stone, I sink,
like the one I grasp around the nape of my neck,
the turquoise one with the ivory glow,
some symbols are lost but this one grows.

You, like some enchanting pond, you pool
hard like truth, like summer out of school,  
colors blend the songs of you,
and speak to me though an invisible ear.

You're bouyant and I float on my elbows,
inching to gaze down the deep end of me.  
But you feel the whiplash of my current
first red hot, the cauldron of morning, then blue.

Your eyes get hard and lidless;
you're a cyclone off the South Pacific of my heart.
I hear you wailing wind into me.
You sound like the bagpipes of my life.

You think I don't know,
the weight of me in the pool of you
but even a fool can see, thats not true,
because the myth of me is found in you.

Reality is a tissue;
a sneezing factory.

When you sneeze,
you lose sight of everything.

Reality is like a tissue;
frail, almost there, then totally
out of sight.

Heavy
like a chest
A single tear

Just a hand
cupping a mouth
catching the fear

At night
she likes to run
It’s the moon

Heavy
like the universe
she’s alone

Just a sweat
dripping down her back
pooling and then gone

A savage girl
her wild auburn hair
twirling and then gone

The world hangs on a thin thread,
the psyche of the mind.

And lets be honest,
we know nothing of it.

The way in which a person behaves,
is indicative of an archetype,
a way of presenting oneself.

But what if that self is so sensitive to rejection,
it rejects itself consciously,
with such fearlessness it assumes a fluid

transformation of self.
Patterns of energy from which everything is drawn,
from which everything is made.

It acts as others would like it to appear
as it has seen their hidden fantasies in and of another,
all because it does not believe it is who it appears to be,
all because it feels who it appears to be.

My coworker speaks in idioms,
he says he's true blue, I say, yeah,
like red and white and wayward too.
People like that are a dime a dozen:
cheap, until outlived: a legend in his own mind,
always drawing out to kids.
When I speak to him, I hear his thunder,
Come again? Speak up sister! His reaction -
like a flash in a pan, because, because,
I could not listen, as the story goes, any bit  - faster.