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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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'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.