it was like stitching the hem
of a catastrophe
and then - came -
a knock upon my door.
a strange thing
with a wonky compass.
a True North -
more Southern
than a lazy eye
and the tear
it wept
with.

just beneath the reason
you were there in the first place.
and exactly why
you left.

just yesterday, you smiled at me.
i caught a glimpse of your hair down
and a rampant
' Okay '.

you were ready to almost be
quite close
too happy.

and i can't help
but notice...

your carousel has fewer insane
horses.

your always striking camp with a riding crop... always off
on some quest that involved your deepest fears.
you tumble out of bed on a horse. and i, of course; head after you.
and long do i roam at the pleasure of your hasty retreat.
always on the go.

just out of reach but embedded in my salt
like a memory. haunting my reach. and the flowers i have seen.
the yellow burns the red thing at the center of the world
in thrall of blossoms and sunset.
a joyful meringue of meadow and riot .
a song in the throat of the world.
hovering in my epiphany.
just beyond
my grasp.

i fell asleep on the train and wandered off.
i came upon a sacred geometry, and dangled
from the corner of a sphere.
at the end of a rope
of light.

not yet a beam. more like a lock of hair
woven by genius and sublime elan.
i found myself naked on the plains of naked glory.
a speck on everlasting mysteries....
i plucked the bones of thin air
and the music was
mine.

we serve no dark when we embrace
and nothing cruel can stay. we are too alive to be beleaguered
by the horde of narrow minds, and cast out almighty odds
against; to gather up our perfect days, wallowing -
in the chasm of our bliss... entangled in soft moans
and well spent.

The word potential is one of self sabotage.
It is dedicated to those unable to put their dreams to work.
Potential is a word given to the indicated who are poised to have talent but no drive, ambition but no discipline.
Potential is given to the abundant group of people who are able to breathe but never live life.
Potential.
A word made to create your grave before you've died.
I haven't figured out how to stay away from the trap.
However, a promise to myself is that I will do more then breathe.

Why every single time
I am with you,
my heart trembles,
my arms
wanting to hug you tight
and my lips
always
desire to kiss you
so softly,
that slowly
kills me inside?

The more
we talk,
the more
I fall in love.

i was disconnected from your umbrella,
as we strolled
like organist thumbs akimbo
over octaves of impenetrable silences
that lay as shells at our feet, unperturbed.
your free hand, bound to mine.
enslaved to the pendulum
of our quietous
tandem.

we note the long shadows swaying in the corona of emerging contrasts... we go arm in arm now...inhaling the fumes
of our unspoken truce. reveling in the sanctity of our bond
without losing a thread in our poncho
to a snag in the deluge.... or raindrop teeth.

we continue in our way.
conjoined in our congenial orbits.
disrobed from the
inside-out.
two columns of mute serenity...
stalled where the bridge
and the railing; conspire to frame the stream below
with the moment of our pregnant
pause.
as seen from ground zero in a cataract
of awe and epiphany.

the mist from stones dashing about like trout
draping our skin in flecks of Indra and glass spider eyes
laughing at all our jokes, before the punchline
finds your Abbot
to Costello.

we are drenched in a thousand specks of mirror.
with tide pools in our crows'feet... and all
the continuum of glory...

the unvarnished fathoms of our symbiosis
and the dignity of our invulnerable
Haj to the Mecca of our Peace.

II

i was disconnected from your umbrella
as you never believed in -
having one.

so i embrace precipitation
with all the ****** delight
of a pagan in the company
of His oracle.

your antlers
shedding skin
and divine.

my spirit
dwelling
in a
jar

full of fireflies.
for true.

i love the way you mostly go from garden to shack
tapping at the jagged slats of my ragged door....
loosely latched to the frame of my hovel.
your knuckles
rapping
on the knot in the grain
and the lichen blotch
above the likeness
of a cumulus cloud...
etched into the feeble barricade
of my luminous
tomb.

i let you in, after you wake me....
with your quiet
rain.

You read my books
but My -
lips

move.

II

sunset denudes the strident stars
and stark they come, above the worldly disarray
of my ordinary disposable comforts.
and the tinsel twilight
of my terminal misconception
of how to proceed with
a miracle.

and i love the way you mostly ignore my dilemma
and how thine is the kingdom of little mercies
that gather to my deconstruction
to ***** pavilions of  the unimagined
in the dismal eye
of my hurricane...
For to watch you at your craft
is be astounded
by my Isolation, dissolving -
into a figment
of my crippling
self doubt.

i love the way you mostly correct the mistakes
that leave a mark...
how you show me how the moon
is a hole
in a pitch dark
clock....

how you serve this hermit
a banquet of intimacy -
that never recedes from
my bare cupboard
nor my hearth.
the way you squander your riches
upon my barren spoils.
the way you ruin my dispossession
by laying claim to the crest
of my tsunami -
of crushing
disappointment in
wishing wells -

( with ventriloquists you can lip read in the dark... )

by the light
of a constant
collapse.
the star you caught
off guard with your
south paw.

III

( And )

i love the way, that i love the way - you
mostly save me
from the withering din
of long hours,
from clawing at the ripple
in my false pond...
where i skipped a stone
into the great red spot
of my private Jupiter.
twiddling your thumbs -
as you casually rescue
my derelict barge
from the Scylla and Charybdis
of my discontinuous
clarity.

( and the moment you arrive. )

i love the way you mostly
and all the ways -  
you always

how all the ways
you love
me...

come so naturally
to you.

You are not
a perfect love poem,
you are full of flaws
and mysteries,
words often rhyme,
often not,
enticing words
are written —
still not enough.

You are
an imperfect
love poem
of an
imperfect poet.

Yet you may not be
a perfect poetry,
still my ink
stained you
with love,
you —
you are perfect
for me.

where we come from is not a world. but an unsundered grace.
a sort of beatitude swelling from the solid light of the blithering truth
and the twitch of a ribbon in a ravens beak
as it dives into the yellow sun
in your palm

life is a holy suspicion that something is real...
and the resignation to know nothingness
as the dream that got away
with having you around.

to love.

the air is tremble lucid in the esophagus of my blasphemous ghost.
so in love, my angels blush as they suicide.
my devils shine my darker thoughts and nip my shadow's heel
even in broad daylight, while I'm besotted and immune
to the vigorous lie at the heart of the world
knowing full well, half less the very truth of how deep she is
but never ceasing to swoon in the thunderous caress
of her absolute beauty... that conundrum
dislodged from the invisible
and using her
name

to create you.

out of thin air... the troubled flesh of your actual love
is more than the measure of your grief and by no means
a means to an end
that was as inevitable as the woman
and the sliver of time she occupied
to dissemble my preconceived notions
of out of the blue.-
and Lightning.

On the tip of my lung
my very next breath and the star shaped wreck
of my impending joy.... the blur of my luck -
so golden in the dark...
and all the cloying karma of a rainbow
smoking *****
with a completely blind god
to see through....

with your eyes.