This perpetual summer engulfs me,
bathes me in its dew, and
deafens me with its hum.

I thought the winter had put
these feelings down, trampled
these blades flat.
I was fine with that,
but the sun comes again,
and the promise of rain.

Now the blades grow again,
unchecked in this
perpetual summer.
They move me once more,
and I croak my response
from afar, under the
weight of this dew,
waiting for the rain.

I lack the words,
the syntax, to
Xerox my feels to you.

These caravan routes we walk,
in the shadows of our freight,
are just a path, a swath
of yesterdays and tomorrows
strung together by moments.

We carry these deeds,
these sins of deliverance,
to the next stop,
hawking the wares,
the smell of camels thick,
tasting the heat of the desert,
collecting its sand,
blinded by the sun,
but never by its promise.

Shielding our eyes, we
carry on in the dark,
seeking oasis, that
eventual moment in the
shade of the palms,
the emergence from the
cool waters, the
feeling of clean skin.

Every month I *** in a cup
to prove I am human.

I work for free to pay
off imaginary debts.

I get my paperwork stamped
so they know I participate.

It's all for my own good,
or so they tell me.

I can't be rehabilitated
until I am broken.

Under the moon, near the groves,
grows the summer's bitter fruit,
plumping for harvest.

We are bound to them,
thirsty for their tartness.

I know nothing of farming
these lands or caring for
elderly children, lost
inside their own minds.
I am only an observer
in these fields, destined
to carry my share home.

When I left my wife I felt
the angst, but underneath it
was the overwhelming
relief that I didn't have to
pretend anymore that
two halves could ever equal one.

I watch the bitter fields,
under this moon,
only an observer,
adding up these fruits,
counting these bushels,
knowing that we've all
our own fields to tend,
serfs that we are.

The azaleas came early this year,
flashing pink in the spring
against their own unruly green.

My dog pants heavily, bounding
across the yard, chasing his
shadow from the azaleas to
the Japanese Maple and back.

Tired, finally, he scratches his
back against the bush, scraping
against the limbs, deforming  the
bush, shaking the blooms down.

I yell at him to stop but he ignores me.

He is young.  He knows only the joy
of the moment, the scratching of that
itch.  If only he could understand that
their beauty is frail and annual...
I want to tell him, but I don't
speak dog and he doesn't listen
anyway, so I lure him inside with
a treat and leave the blossoms
until next year.

What is today if not a ripple,
the shock of yesterday
bouncing off tomorrow?
Each moment nothing more
than pebbles thrown and sinking?
Our human efforts a shrill
cry in the canyons:

"I want to be free to be me...
to be free to be...
me to be free...
i want to be me...
be free to want...
i want me..."

but it trails off, dies out,
like the ripples in the pond,
the efforts of a stone.

Love and fear are all we know.

Love:  the longing for unity,
           the comfort of the constant
           companion, the inner
           peace in a sea of discord.

Fear:   howls of derision, the
           emotional clothing shielding
           our true selves, the
           hesitance at opportunity's knock.

Every moment of your life is an ****,
an echo chamber of desire, a festival of
potential love, waiting for your surrender.
Reach out to it; strip off your garments
of fear, reap the love before you,
or carry the regret in your pocket.