He was far too disorganised
driving too fast
here and there
with no particular place to go.

She was a neon light
flashing
in the black Mojave night
a celestial mansion
alive
with such sweet smells.

He now had a purpose
a story to tell of
a
thousand fantasies
hotter
than the hinges
on the gates of hell
sparklers of desire
flaming through neurons on fire.

He was lite up
like
neon
in the dark Mojave night
all he could see
was
delights
in
every window burning bright.

Her fingers beckoned him
her eyes pleaded
her breath said
yes yes yes
her
body
danced and swayed
perfect harmony with all he craved.

He moved closer
moment by moment
movement by movement
to
take her to places promised.

He reached to take her hand
there was one
exquisite flash
disintegrated
shred into ash
on the pointed arrow
of
her forever flames

Just like that.

the error rate of rage and snarl,
so very high

the youthful intolerance of every sad slight,
wearies me

the political correctness of the day spoils,
both the day and the night,
words can never harm me

who owns the truth?

the truth I belove is the opened arm,
the child comforted,
the kiss of the
parent and the child

not a fleer, or unafraid,
a grown man who has raised his fists in anger,
I defend fierce mine and my rights,
attack me with stick and stone,
and you shall run into my knife unsheathed

but the snarlers and the goose steppers
almost always fail,
choking on poisoned vitriol,
their own petard does not hoist them,
except to the gallows of the nothingness of infamy

I fight for tranquility and green pastures
where all shall lie down with whom they want

yet all I see is the valley of the shadow,
all I hear is the rattling from the valley of the bones

strange is the calm I feel, for rage is an old companion

my weapons are neither dull or rusted,
or put away for never to be used

come to me in peace, one by one,
come to me with chivalrous acts and kindness
spread like thick butter on dark country bread

I will easy embrace, protect and defend,
all the days of my life

rage against the dying light if you must,
but do not deny that rage hasten the dark

The
continuity
of
all radiance and vibration
carves
out a space in me
for me
to
understand the secrets
of serenity.

Identify the divine
in
all our
living creations
our utterances
our fascinations
our foundations
letting go
of
all our self defeating
attachments
but those
that
are
our true blessings
and
not
false meanderings.

I
find myself
on
the roads
to
the realms
of
meaning
where
the sweetness
of
love
drips
drop by drop
and
eyes are illuminated
and
begin to see
call it god
call it rocks
call it soil
call it life
doesn't matter much to me.

We
are
orchids
blooming
adrift
in
the black vacuum sea
reminds me
in each
moment
to
consciously
be.

My Poet:

tho evening draws nigh,
on this our wedding day,
the stars, guardians of our canopy,
reminder twinkle it can never be
fully complete, for you always make
a moment in time for me,
today we wait, synchronizing seconds
until both pronounce,
I do

let my hands,
in my tenderest embracing grasp,
perforce, when I hold you face,
still cannot hold your entirety,
for you always make and leave a space
for me to seal our universe

today, you need me to fill you,
so together, ever forward,
we will define and explore
the edges of our redrawn,
now, single unified line,
our ever expanding contiguous boundary

our blood is not commingled
but when our bodies unified,
the physics of our conjoining,
illustrates that those in our
surround of time and space,
in the aura we create,
not so very great,  
and yet our oneness
'tis a shining upon the countenance of our place,
a luminous emittance upon this earth

when you write your poetry,
it always finishes with me,
I am the native child of thy words,
I am the filament webbing
illuminating the spaces between each line

but more than this,
I am your beginning,
you are my destination,
together we make,
The End

they ask me to vow,
demand I swear, make promises,
certify, preserve, record and store
the solemnity of this marriage born,
in ledgers of the city,
before an invisible god

I eschew all this
for nothing in life
ever guaranteed by words secured,
but this I know true

My Poet:

*what I shall give to you,
and you to us,
cannot be spoke,
the words, not yet,
have we originated

for each day
will we compose anew,
each day, shall be
a new combination
under new stars,
our canopy unfolded,
our joining sanctified,
by the simple truth of us

the third mate last,
lashed to the helm,
a punishment, a lashing
for having
read and let
the taste of words unkempt,
hash my essence,
thus pelted,
excised, my flesh,
unto a wearied
death by a thousand cuts

my artistic force bleeds,
I am realistic,
there is no
superman savior,
there is only
life after death,
where dear god,
last wishing, it is a world of
silence perfected

I know I promised no more
on this shopworn, discounted topic,
but I read and I weep
my essence seeps, pores pouring,
tried the ancient cure of ignoring,
but anguished curiosity begs
for bliss
asking,  
just try once more,
knowing that ignorance
can never be blissful

confounded, words indelible,
the poems tattooed trite,
with an unheard last sigh,
what makes them think
every stray dog of a thought
deserves sharing

tender each with word
with such selected caring,
arguing back and forth,
and always losing
and always winning
the argument over the
Final Selection,
the process holocausts me,
I am not a survivor anymore,
just an over killed victim

to tattered ribbons sliced,
no seamstress can resurrect what once was,
endlessly they celebrate their flesh's cutting,
they cannot know their words,
alpha beta me to where,
the ink is drained and flushed,
and withered fingers lose their moist urgent,
discomfited composure

and

all the words I know are a plague
upon my shotgun house,
I am bleeding, but that does not mean
my poetic permission lives,
it only means my blue blood
surrenders it oxygen upon contact
with an atmosphere of trite
and I swear to you it hurts to much to

                                       write,
hurts more than breathing

do not write to me of your pain,
write instead with painstaking care
and let me read thy crafted composition
and say this,

*thus I am staked to you,
penetrated in ways ,
that each cut of thine,
ready welcomed
for it is sublime,
a human humidifier,
putting back the moisture lost
by tears shed over wastrel poems