Eyes set for journey,
Downy flight, round hills, meadows,
  .  .  .  Us naked in bed.

Insidious doors that close linoleum floors keep the secrets of the man hidden from the poor.
It's a shame the way he makes me work for more.
Fear is the weapon of our enemies and allies.
Crying wolves, crying wolf while slaying dear.
Maybe we are better off this way.
On blue moons, our eyes turn red and we say we are done and won't take it again.
Force fed, force shaved, forced to listen and forced to behave.
It's a shame the way he makes me feel depraved.
I shout, scream, stand up and get mad.
Tear apart the room without saying a word.
***** you, you aren't my Dad.

Have my cake and eat it too?
**** me off under the table while the social network takes a stab. I don't care. F%&K; the media's news.
I see the headlines spelled a million different ways, but you are still the one that has to sleep at night, knowing you nurtured a nation that reaped and *****.

The innocent, the young, the scared, the hopeful, the dreamers, the soldiers, the vagabonds, the artists, the entertainers, the founders, the church-goers, the fishermen, the students, the Samaritans, the stay at home mothers, the policemen, the American man. His soul and the spirit they tried to preserve.
Lied to and tapped, again and again.
It's a shame the way he makes me give and take.
Inside us, inside the US.
Without asking.

The new dawn is breaking
into our home, into our room
through our window to take you
away, to take you away from me again,
to package you up in a suit and tie.
The light is invading our space
illuminating your scruffy morning face
that I won’t see again for a little while.

I pretend that if I ask you to stay,
to stay for me, to stay with me here,
here where the smoothly flowing cold sea
of sheets between my fingers fail to fill
the spaces the way your warm hands do,
that you’ll assure me that you won’t be gone
for too long, that we’ll be together again soon,
that everything will be fine, right before you pull
your body away from me and let go of my hand
because I do not, will not let go of my own accord.

He said it's only a risk if we're scared,
they asked him what they called it
if fear wasn't present.

He said
"A decision."

I left with very little, expecting a week or perhaps two in the city, quick cash and then home to the sand of my beaches and the touch of my bed. It has been exactly two weeks and I am starting to say that I live here. There's an exhilaration attached to the detachment of a one-way ticket, I am a thousand people a day while being none, I can walk away from conversations without feeling guilty, there is not one person who cares enough about me to bother with my affairs-it is absolute freedom. Yet there is a loneliness that hangs on the hinge of liberation...a traveler has the world in their heart.  We cannot stop ourselves from stuffing our experiences inside, gluttons of the road with the horizon in our eyes. Sometimes, though, we lose sight of what we wanted all along and then begin to search for what we desire, which becomes blurred and tangled by time zones and climates and languages...our stomachs are always empty and our chests are always aching for the unknown.  It can break a person. I was on the bus back from East Hampton when an older man asked me why I was crying:
"I don't know",  I said, "I suppose I just realized that this city takes everything from you, and you must prove yourself to earn it back".
He told me what they all do:if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere
I turned back towards the window before asking, "when you came here, did you have nothing, too?"
The man nodded and smiled. Maybe he was lying, but he gave me 50 dollars and paid my cab fare. I hugged him goodbye and he wished me luck. I don't know how he knew I was completely broke with no way to get back to my apartment, but I cannot imagine the forty-block walk with three bags. There is a kindness in a fellow traveler, one more seasoned than we are, who will always understand what it is to be poor and hungry and tired. But we chose this life, I chose this life, when I stepped on the plane with no way back. I realized this as I was locked atop a rooftop in SoHo, watching the pink and blue of sunrise with champagne on my lips. It is okay to admit your inadequacies, to ask for help, as long as you appreciate the sheer genius of the universe. That, after all, is why this life calls to us.

Spring has come and gone
     Summer's heat is a memory

Fall brings cool winds
     Winter's not far away



©Tina Thompson

The pressures of the day dissipate
     Worries of tomorrow retreat.
Tensions take flight in the stratosphere
     Vaporized by the heat in the air.
Psychological armor melts away
     Veils and covers are kept at Bay.
The frigid world begins to thaw
     Threatening crisis withdraw.

All from the warmth of your arms.



© Tina Thompson

There's but one indulgence
     One delicacy.
That will ease my hunger
     Please my appetite.

It is a sweetness
     No baker can provide.
A delicious treat
     A most Savory delight.

The aroma visits me daily
     Dismantling all self control.
I can taste it by thought
     But that won't soothe my soul.
    
These cravings are possessing me
     My mind and body can't rest.
In order to cease my desire
     I must Feast upon your flesh.

© Tina Thompson

One day I left her—
Soon she came round shimmering,
Never so lovely.

Comfy People

Certain people stick
They just do.
Some you want to get rid of
& Some want to get rid of you, too.

The only reason is comfortability.
After so long
It's still so comfortable
No matter what goes wrong.

After every fight
Its all okay.
You just want to kiss,
The perfect apology for everything you say

It's not love
More than lust
Maybe we just care
A bit more than much.

Bull frog in fish pond—
Loud, one day I heard last croak,
Raccoon washing hands.

Forest in morning—
Mellow sun rapt in branches,
  .  .  .  Hair tangled in mine.