We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.

A city is nothing but a menagerie
caging different shades of insanity
dusty streets, concrete tombs, lingerie
costumes shooting up profanity

Here I stand
no shade of dignity
*** of cash in hand
shaded with apathy

Things I do with these creatures
in the concealing night
a spoon and a woman, double feature
finished and feeling contrite

Cross the bridge to leave the zoo
back to my normal life
conscience I must subdue
while I lay down next to my wife

I am sorry
I just miss the thrill
I am sorry
I just miss the feel
I am sorry
I just miss the comforts of the landfill
and the parroting comatose safaris

The orchid is flowering
Opening,
a living mandala
Next to my bed
I hear it in my dreams
It's telling me very strange things
About the chemistry between us
And what being a flower really is
And what it really means.

There's a lot to learn.

The orchid whispers in chemical symbols

I danced through the night one night
I drank water in the desert
The sweetest taste, I've ever known
I heard a sound I've never heard before
The buzzing of Chi
Blowing in
while the curtains fluttered
In the night time wind.

Our time I know is limited
Forever wilts away

But while the orchid is flowering
That's for another day

I find myself longing for the scent of the night and at least
One more dream to go.

Just no ways to bridge the miles
That span the distances
Tween that first step
And the last, darling

Trail the back forty where
Shouts disappear into
Nothingness or go far up
The hills echoing
Into mornings into
Stories

Storied tales the brave tell
Like proverbs said
On prophets tongues
Or made up
Fairies breaths
Resound

On every path that led
To there from here
Or roundabout
Through brush
And weeds the wind
Does.
Bring.

A certain taste, a tongue
One touch of flesh
A night among
The purest
And the fair.

How then becomes this
Long away longing call
On winters dying gasp
Along a sliver of
A chill

This only fate, my dear,
My sweet, this but a faintest
Breeze, that calls my
Ear to render tender
Whispers
Of the leaves.

The moment of regrets
And wills
The time of extreme fear
Of loss

..
I long for an ideal love,
But I cannot spin on a reel,
Tape myself with magnetic
Energy, that lights up rooms.

I pine for an ideal love,
But I cannot enter a screen
That flashes imaginary truth
In dimly, dear lit theatre halls.

Why is pain so real, so concrete?
Why is joy so abstract, illusory?

I ache for an ideal love,
More actual than godly stars,
Lovers living within golden light,
Always faithful, printed on film.

*Why is isolation so universal, so dark?
Why do only movie idols glow, spark?