Elephant
Wise, good-humored
Loving, playing, existing
Teach me your ways
Larger-than-life

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.

Oh, Laridae,
all feathers and beak,
how we do adore your screech.
Granted, puffy, squawking bird, anything you may beseech.
Our sweet
Kleptoparasite of beach. House it anytime we meet,
with brute force and shellfish plea,
you'll be the king
of seas.

At the end, will it be brandy-wine or mescaline to sugar coat
enlightenment, the purpose,
the omnipotent influence?

Some live to make a whirling dervish swoon.
Some pray to Love, composing sonnets for the moon.
Some find themselves floating, bloated lungs with lazy currents,
mourning free-will.

With questions perched atop your windowsill,
do decomposing wings pull with yearning to wake
in dawn's warning? Your beak,
a rattling, pneumonic drill.

It's a dead end,
fear and adrenaline.
Invite me in
to ostracizing nuisances.

Therefore,
I may imprison myself in cylindrical cells,
pop out wisdom like bubble-wrap,
fight the mighty ocean swells,
or shimmy up the lobster trap,
With inevitable siege by buzzards eying wildly,
shedding sea-salt feathers that won't be washed for weeks.

Still, the mad-hatter trades me one more spill for spill.
And I taste the honesty we sip for swollen memories
whose frantic bodies let fists fly on flushed faces
that we never truly see.

In profound confusion we stumble, blind.
Then, we all forget so blissfully,
once we reach the rainbow's end.

If I stole your art, could you blame me?

The melodic curves
or rhythmic edges,
organic pastels,
or heart-throbbing neon,

awake as the eyes that envisioned them.

My muses all run to you with eager,
little fingers,
pinching and plucking at your sketches,

protruding tongues, and rolling sneaky, spiteful eyes in my direction,
******* on your creations with humming bird vigilance.

We reside in a circus tent
strung with Goldilock's curls

Blood-red rose petals drizzle
from flesh-tinted ceiling drapes,
floating over
bodies reborn.

Blood-red rose
petals the color
of a lion's heart that beats
rhythmically,
imprisoned in the ivory-white
cartilage of a rib-cage
close to cracking,
threatening
an untamed liberation.

Who has enough audacity
to draw so near
to trust his head
between unpredictable jaws
or
tinseled with moths
to dance
illuminated by street-lights,
like snow that never falls.

Now she is laughing
with ethereal camaraderie
at the physicality
of Earth reality
illuminating
how limited vision is
before the lights start flashing

human and star dissolve
as explosively
irreversible chemical reactions

The ringmaster,
tossing Saturn's turn,
a voice like wind-chimes
an honest sparkle in his eye,
welcomes one to roam
where hearts dance freely
in ever-lasting starlit flame,

Concluding:

As long as we thank love for feeling
we'll never fall again.

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.

Imaginary Boy
builds imaginary walls so tall he trumps the Taj Mahal.
He walks corridors to imaginary doors
where he stores his love in hoards of fantasies,

but he figures her
the mystery,
the puzzle to be solved.

Imaginary boy
composes stormy melodies.
He plays them through
imaginary seas,
but in his heart it is the sirens,
with songs diminished, sickly,
who claim his ship for the fiery deep.

While he fills his pockets with stone, he screams,
"I stored my love in hoards on board, and she's taken all I have!"

Imaginary Boy
lives in a dream, but never sleeps.
Quietly, he mumbles, "That woman, she makes me bleed."
but she could never penetrate that deep,
because he cannot see her
through his warped expectations.

Imaginary Boy
doesn't know that love resounds infinitely through our mentality,
and cognitively,
it is our decision to love,
and we decide how to love,
and who to love

Imaginary Boy,
love is a verb, never a noun,
and so very real,
so very profound,
that the loving cannot be real
if the expectations are imaginary.

Why did you leave your bones
scattered? White
chalk on my floor.

When I awoke in the hazy mourning, doves
laughing at my stumbling.

I tore them from my windowsill,
I buried the evidence in feathers.

I locked the door,
to stalk, alone,
through eggshells,

Searching sticky membranes
for shy muses flaring sparks of
lessons learned.

Oh, how sweet,

the air,
in reminiscence,
tastes of morning dew.

On soft wings,
a slew of sound:
The melody of spring.

A mourning dove falls
in love with winter's animosity.

A song,
lonely and hollow,
echoes through white snow.

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.

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.

When I was young a man told me,
mine was the fairest face across every sea,
on every field of emeralds,
'neath every weeping willow tree.

When I gave him my heart, he disappeared,

so I turned to the trees.
When I asked them for love,
they weathered to ash,
leaving only the sea,

when I asked her for comfort,
she dried into sand,
and I was left alone,

so, I turned on myself,
and found only bones;
nothing infinite to hold.

There is no use for beauty in this new world, only strength.
That is why gravestones cover corpses.
That is why the mountains are so grand.

I've never seen eyes quite like yours.
A 17th century folklore might label you a changeling,
try to **** your colic with honey,
and, I'm sorry to say,
but you could've been burned at the stake
with eyes like that.

Sometimes I catch your pupils riding
on a black swan's wings
stealing secrets from the breeze.
The sky around them melts my skin like a scorching Arizona sky;
Lake Placid Blue
That's when I know you're staring out the window
wishing for the birds to return
way too late in the morning.

Sometimes those eyes refract an eerie, emerald green,
like they're mimicking a sci-fi movie:
The Man who Fell to Earth
I know you are too far out in space for me to reach you then,
so I send out some light-house giggles and I hope you'll find your way back to Earth soon.

When those windows to your soul are guarded with golden, earthy chambers,
you rattle the bars with your native tongue,
cooing and commanding I recite the password again and again.
and I know exactly what to say,
when your eyes glimmer like the California gold-rush:
Let me in.

Sometimes I can hold them in one hand
while they ring like Baoding *****
entrancing me into Nirvana.
Other times they burn me like fire,
and I'm caught off guard, not enlightened enough, yet, to walk over hot coals.

You're a changeling, indeed.

But when your eyelids are closed,
and all those secrets disappear back into your soul,
you wreak of consistency,
solid as an oak tree.
Your stories seep back into your roots.
The roots that burrow deep into my soil,
familiar and warm.

I hide your secrets there.
I hold you for as long as you let me,
and I'm not afraid when you flutter back into your folklore
because I hold the key to your resting place,
the seeds of your fruitful vision.

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.

I dream
dark and quietly

They bellow,
the twisted sighs of laborers
adrift a midsummer's lullaby,

because their eyes are a collage of uncertainty
I want to scatter them,
find them washed up on a desolate shore,
uncork them
decode the message inside,

The monarch's sea ebbs
black and thick and drips
on a satellite,
a power struggle between stillness
and the busy orbit of our minds.

All the sin the king commits
is revealed in the innocent, sapphire tears
of his children,
dampening his shadow.

Youthful hearts aflame, chasing illusions,

They won't challenge the stories,
not anymore.

We dream this night,
a never-ending cycle.

I feel us here
under the twisting tree of life,
any soul seeking nourishment from leaky roots:

We are your child's laughter.
We are your fear of death.
Let us dance upon your lilies,
let the flies handle the rest.

Love is
being sick with anticipation;
a stomach full of Egyptian Cobras
vainly strangling and devouring the Mexican Monarchs' reign.

Find me dancing on your shadow,
I'll be leaning on the turn.
I dream of you, for Heaven's sake. On starlit nights,
you're far away.

I call out.
To whom I do not know.

My mind dwells in distance.
My thoughts collide and trail off, out of cities;
careening ships through mist and pine.

I try to catch my balance on your eyelids as I
push down,
heavy on swollen, blue skin;
Slipping on lashes wet with
memories
that you will not share with me,
and I dare not ask about them
because I'm scared of losing my footing.

I feel your darkness like a blanket,
while I wish it would
pummel me like a flood.

Tell me, I want to know, what have you seen, boy?
Certainly war,
crushed fingers and toes;
red rivers.

What have you felt?
Certainly love, warmth, and kindness;
red satin garments.

Come on,
you've seen this before and your pulse still lingers.
Irregular,
scattered
and a little too strong, but still.

I know you've been there before,
where the fear is asphyxiating,
and sudden as a red fox in the wood.

I know you know every corner,
every thicket,
every red flag of romance.

and sometimes,
that lost love,
she palpates,
sticky in your throat.

Will you ever let me dance there,
or is that air still coarse and salty on your tongue?

Are you ever home?
Because I knock and knock on your splintered door
and I throw stones to your shattered windows
and I sleep on your scorched, frost-bitten yard

and I wait.
With impeccable patience, I wait.

I do because
sometimes behind your silence,
at that particular time of night,

you know the time,

when the moon howls at the wolf,
when the mist makes love to the pines,
and the field mouse cries,
and it is so cold,

I have to dance on your shadow,
follow the turn.
Far, far away from ego and hate and cold, steel buildings;
just a little bit adrift, hopeful, and dreamy, too.

I can't resist.
I have learned to lean,
a whirling dervish on your breeze.

With the deepest soul
Heavy as a  blanket of snow
In the brightest star
In it's reflection
In the fearless dark
In a secret dream
Careening on the weathered beach

I will find you

In an ocean wave
Floating with the ebb and flow
Between desert sands
In the healing rays of the sun
From the patient hands of the maker
In the shifting gears
In a sleeping soldier's tears

I will find you

Making love to the muse
Lost in your hues of blue
Confusing the reaper as to who chooses youth
In love, in truth, in solitude
In depth
In the soft rhythm of your chest
In the yearning of my heart
Before you fall apart

I will find you

Black mountain fingers push
***** toes,
birds, feathers, and native flora.

Suppose the babe was feral;
backwoods tempered, under tall trees,
stinging knees;

nature's reparation.

Steamy soil,
encrusted, permanently, under twisted fingernails.
Green-as-envy rain,
natural,
beat,
gone with the tree swallow's cry;
easy sleep.

The monumental image of this memory depicts
half of a man.

What makes this image monumental
is the unspoken truth
behind strong, naked feet
dancing and
kicking up dust
on top of a soap box.

Unshakeable emotions
warp this memory's
crowd of many
nameless faces,
pinching cheeks into malice
for a few,
long hours.

These malicious expressions may
be the result of the dust storm
filling in the blanks
for lots of people
collectively trying to ignore something.

Authorities have concluded that time
cannot heal a wound
if the hourglass has cracked,
so,
the memory goes on,
amassing
confusion, chaotically
like this television screen
showcasing half of a man
dancing
on top of a soapbox.

Resonating senseless
necessity,

percussive impulses;

floods of excess
skimming the surface.

That mysterious lust of gods
where the denouement begets the beginning.

Oh, majestic sweetheart,

let me have my indulgences.

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.

Smoky walks the tracks.
Forty paces on the green mile.
Death row.

But Smoky's not afraid.
Black as night, and growing darker
with every step.

Smoky's black eyes aflutter and spark
and notice an elm tree,
so twisted,
it's strangling itself
with rough skin, brown as the dirt it stole it's life from.

The twisted elm watches, but cares not for Smoky's fate.

Smoky wears a robe stained with storm clouds.
With every step he takes, the gravel beneath him ripples.
No doubt, he could walk on water,

not like the son of God,
but, rather,
a water skeeter, light and agile,
with a zen-like lack of interest.

Smoky walks the tracks.
The train is coming.

Smoky steps out of the way,
and continues his trek.
Keeping his cool.

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.

A toast,
to us, my friend,
dancing recklessly on the city streets.
Does the moon cause a similar wave pattern
in Patron
as it does in the majestic ocean body?
Giddy and drunk with liberating damnation,
conquering gravity and solidity;
magnetically driven.

We're here,
two souls- one rhythm.
Let's manifest the stars' burning vigor.
Can you feel the moon through the commotion
of lights?

What joy!
Like a fresh babe's very first, bubbly, giggle.
As true as a mother's love,
our bodies will disappear
in laughter.

One sky,
one love to share,
two bodies soaking wet with wonder,
or was it sea water, or sweet patron?
Who cares?
We're alive in impenetrable unity and colorful independence.
The moon glares upon us, jealously,
as we raze paths,
blessings swoon.

I am counting off my hands
the men I cannot love,
but hold forever in gold plated frames.

My sirens call an unheard song,
that puts these men to sleep at dawn;
they dream in colors of the fall.

Before each night,
I count their eyes to see with vivid light
a woman cursed with sight.

But Love is blind,
for we cannot know exactly what we're living for
or who it is we're dieing for.

And Love is a bird
with black, dusty wings that tauntingly rap my window;
Poe's raven calling "Never more."

Shattered glass, amass.
Sharp edges.

In a broken home,
the shingles fall at will.

And I, you, my love,
I'll suffer the blue siding.
Stained and weathered,
burned and scarred;

the tired bodies strewn across the yard.

A broken home to poetry,
and poetry to lust,
and love lives in the memories,
to melodies,
to dust.

It's those eyes I'll never trust, but I do love to see them there

Chanting, don't open that door,
we've been there before,

we've muddied the floor.

Has it been a long time since I've thrown myself into the fire,
since I've kindled the flames with my flesh,
until I was the burning.

My softness would dance,
flit, and keep the night warm
until the deepest parts of me were glowing embers.

Would I slowly burn out
as phoenix ashes cleansing rebirth.

Maybe the kindling is wet,
or smothered,
suffocating in warm memories;
smouldering passion.

I know flames are silent,
stealing life from anywhere,
grasping at the chance to be heard.

The noise,
hypnotic,
and never enough to be satisfied by.

We are the last song of Zion.
All we ask of you
is a longer road
to carry the weight on.

What are we to do with
gray forms
or a silver spoon?
We are starving for color.
Open the window,
let the light in.

We are the lost heart of Babylon.
All we ask of you
is a better note to die on.

We were free once,
we were free.
We were blue skies.
We were sparrows singing to the trees.

We are the namesake of Eden.
All we ask of you is redemption.

We were free once.
We were free.
We we're blue skies
We were sparrows in the trees
We were alive once
We had dreams
We were free once
We were free

Now, are you filled with regret?
Was it the only way.
Do the memories fill your head
Do they waltz with the pictures on the wall
Where she wants, patiently
To **** you all.

I dream
I drench my house
in gasoline
and burn it to the ground.

I free them from captivity,
the skeletons in my closet,

I laugh hysterically
along with the thunderous racket
of the warm flames.

I wake up with heartburn.

and I discover what a better purpose I'd serve
if I burned off my flesh
for your suffering.

How high I would get from those fumes.

I have three brothers; three mirrors.
Three extra cranial lobes
where thoughts are explored; experiences shared.
Three life-long companions,
Six shoulders to lean on.

One unconditional, infinite love.

Winter leaves a trace of frostbitten memories.
Don't speak to me of spring,
without closure.
A winter romance is not a summer fling.

When I ask her for warmth
she hands me a dying man
who won't make it through the season.