Words are
ripples in a pond,
though, they
linger
longer in perspective and
latch on;

a virus.

What
dwells inside a solitary
droplet that
does not
dwell inside a
downpour?

Your intentions vibrate
synergistic to
sound-waves.

Your words
poison,
pay attention: have
patience

Sometimes,
silence is
strong enough.

Learn your
lessons, move a
long,

don't shoot
the messenger along
the way.

You're only a vibration

pressed to scrap metal,
burned to a disk.

I can hold your voice with one hand;
I can hold your melodies with my ears.
I can hold you in my heart,
fool my body into your presence.

For epithelial tissue
is not so clever,
it cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality,
love and necessity.

Sound travels 768 miles per hour, a pace my heart races,
but I'll die before I win that game.

How recklessly we tossed that eve,
Draped with velvet ocean throws,
Into the shimmering, emerald sea.

Hearts blind to beat so tenderly,
Though, we shall nevermore bestow
How recklessly we tossed that eve.

From red wine stains to sand-scraped knee,
With indulgent paddles we did row
Into the shimmering, emerald sea.

Love, cleanse this foggy memory.
If lust had your purest sight, we'd know
How recklessly we tossed that eve.

A grain with highest majesty;
A salty mist, who danced so slow
Into the shimmering, emerald sea.

The deepest amity we sowed
to root your sighs inside my soul;
How recklessly we tossed that eve
Into the shimmering, emerald sea.

Scurry, dreams,

burrow into grainy, infinitesimal holes,
grip relentlessly onto life,

the false prophet of hope.

While death approaches the circle's end,
love was always spinning poi.
So, why do you preach tombstones with concrete faith, when
you could be surreal, preaching,

"Wise sun rays are
clouds of stolen secrets where
blue herons sail everlasting
white skies,"

The promise of a grave always wills a bird to end his life on the gritty, concrete ground,
when he should have had the sky.

My love
Rests on imaginary nails.
My body 'neath moonlit willow trees,
The siren calling, "Hari Krishna!" Pulling the monk
Out from
Under dreams of harmony and peace, to place
Love back in it's proper hierarchy.
Tossing his silken gown,
We prey.

An angel of war sends me photographs, black and white.
                                                          ­          I surrender, so we

chew on Floridian palms, the majesty of loons,
                             and how to capture the moon.

I've hidden his photographs behind a mask that hangs from my mirror,
                            where I spend hours rehearsing
                            how to disappear.

Eye do look on that day with anxious yearning;
                                      his epic
                                      return to the void,

because a tug of war is always easier without handling the rope,

and I cannot force his wings closed. I cannot soften the blow.
                                                 His motions
                                                 like ocean tides,

so strong and so slow.

Take this lonely river
where we were floating feathers.

On me, your glowing eyes,
performing from the shore.
Those hazy, sapphire thunderstorms

I saw you hide the secrets there,
so we could float
carefree.

Cleanse the fear with morning dew,
and let thoughts drift on down the blue.

Is the water clear as minds at peace?
Would it help to fill my lungs with air?

Praying with the ebb and flow,
would I stay afloat?

Because if I should choose to swim the other way,
or to grab hold, the shifty shore,
my body, gravely unprepared
may swallow in despair,
and all it takes is one stone in my pocket.

Just one stone in my pocket, dear.