growing up to choruses of revelation and redemption,
i always heard them say that this world is approaching
hell or heaven.

now that years have passed and i have found my own voice,
i say -with scars of experience- there's not much difference between
an abundance of wildflowers or an abundance of wildfires.
life continues to blossom fearlessly forward;
lovers continue to burn just as brightly.

so, dear friend, i beg of you,

spread me like your wildflowers.
hiding beneath the weight of loam
bodies curled tight in the shell of youth
clinging tight to the gentle flame
that burns within us all.

spread me like your wildfires.
ever expanding heat and humidity
swelling and growing faster, faster
collecting sparks like goosebumps
and awaiting the ignition of touch.

spread me like wildflowers.
roots like fingers tunneling
their way through the damp
fertility of adolescent life stumbling
through hallways headfirst into the light.

spread me like wildfires.
bellowing smoke like clouds dances
from lips never kissed
now singed to a gentle crisp
from the intimacy of a catalyst.

spread me like wildflowers.
stems burst forth from the dark
with the kinesthetic rage
of a child no longer content
to crawl upon hands and knees.

spread me like wildfires.
gasping, wheezing, aching,
spreading further, higher to find
new sources to burn like blood in veins
in the heartbeats following a first touch.

spread me like wildflowers.
bodies now rising strong against the tide of winds
lifting the burden of petals upon shoulders capable
like butterflies crouching upon fingertips raised,
poised to fly.

spread me like wildfires.
flames stretching like arms across
the skin of a now familiar lover
embracing in the hot throes of passion
and the brilliant burn of innocence's remorse.

spread me like wildflowers.
buds burdened with dew
heavy with expectation to begin anew
straining against the drowsiness of flesh
until finally bursting forth with brilliant zeal.

spread me like wildfires.
the overwhelming euphoria
of feet finding steady ground
and of thoughts no longer filled
with concerns of mere survival.

spread me like wildflowers.
growing past fearful worries of tomorrow
content to stretch limbs and petals wide
seeding the earth with children
and blessing a new generation with beauty.

spread me like wildfires.
drowning the overwhelming clamor
of a forest in the midst of song
replaced only with the lonely blaze,
the roaring glow in that crackling ******.

spread me like wildflowers.
the seasons of youth long passed
leaving trunks and bodies to thicken and knot
scarring deeper with every lingering reminder
and memory of the light left dimming.

spread me like wildfires.
always hungry, wisps of flame
lick at the heels of the forest
stealing the air of life and lungs
and leaving the body breathless.

spread me like wildflowers.
the brisk, impersonal wind of winter
chills the rooted beauty of Nature's eye
gently wilting the aging passion
under a soft crown of frost.

spread me like wildfires.
never content to rest in one place
or shy away from raging against
the gall of day to ever end at all
and lower the shades on former lovers.

spread me like wildflowers.
gently resting like bodies
no longer warm to the touch
sleeping deeper than corpses
in the morgue of your memory.

spread me like wildfires.
ash swirls in the flurry of
flame's last breath, whirling
in the charred remains of intimacy
no longer returned, no longer found.

so lover, i beg now of you,

bury me like your wildflowers.
drown me like your wildfires.

i get angry at your opinion
as if it were something i could change.

facts are easy to alter
(if not, ignore them).

opinions linger like kisses from unwanted lovers
(absolution skips a few).

the hardest lesson i ever learned
was never to dig a shallow grave.

i learned as a boy
young and teary eyed
scrapes on both knees
knee deep in mud,
too weak to lift the shovel.

i dropped your body in
left your corpse
in a shallow pit.

at a tender age
it was all i could do.

i didn't prepare for the flood
didn't see it coming
so when the rains hit
your body turned lazarus.

old haunts and dreams better off dead
drug their familiar names in my skin
and i aged decades in heartbeats.

the hardest lesson i learned
was that corpses stay dead
no matter how many prayers you send.

you are a corpse
of a forgotten promise
reeking of obsolescence.

don't you dare forget

that i buried you
once
twice
three times

that you still rose to
haunt me in the quiet hours
of a morning too heavy with dew to begin
of a sun too weary to start again
of a moon too proud to dip
below my horizons

that i walked away
left my scar
of an unrequited kiss
upon the skin of the earth.

the hardest lesson i ever learned
was how deep to dig a grave
for a memory turned corpse.

i pressed my fingers to the pane
to feel the heartbeat of the rain

i wanted to see if the pitter-patter pulse
would match the patchwork pace of mine

and maybe if it did, i would be kept warm
with thoughts that even the clouds knew my name

and maybe if it didn't, i could at least take comfort
knowing that even god herself couldn't paint my fingertips.

better to be alone than in the company of *******,
i always say.
now that i'm alone and the *****
is gone,
these walls never seemed so close.

i've never brushed my hands across the skin of the ocean.
i've never embraced the snow of the mountain's canvas.
i've never breathed in the heat of a desert's exhalation.

the ocean will ripple,
the snow will build,
the sands will burn,
all without me.

so i am thankful,
in awe really,
that Nature's love
exists without man.

i shook your petals once
watched them fall to the floor.

i shook your petals once
but now i shake them no more.

the familiar grip
of a chainsaw

a quick snap of the wrist
awakens the beast

hungry for a

visceral vivisection
violent, vivid, vital in nature
and vying for more.

hand finish what
fumes and metal teeth cannot
pulling the young body of pine
to stoop and kiss the skin
of the earth.

i traced my fingers
across the edges
of your spine.

i counted 7.
no, 8.
8 rings.
8 years.

what is my primate life worth?

how many rings are etched on my soul?
what color is the sap pouring
through my veins?

could i ever be worth a tree
could a tree ever be worth me?

my confessions rain
like the needles
from your hair.

i know now
that Nature's love
exists without man.

my mother always
told me that
god rested on sundays.

i always thought
that was funny.
instead, she weeps.

emotions are just like sand.
always fleeting,
always shifting.

not quite whole
but
wholly individual

and flitting through
our fingers before
we can fully
grasp them.

who needs a clipboard anyway?
the back of a lover's legs are enough
lacking the flat judgement of wood
embracing the fluid of my words
upon the sweet kiss of skin.

absorb me in the cracks of your mind.
soak me into the patience of your smile.
drink me in the holes of your eyes.
lead me into the scars of your past.
lose me in the folds of your heart.

crack open the yolk of my heart
and let me leak into my streets of veins.
allow me to drip into your soul
and sink like grinds to the bottom
of my midmorning melancholy coffee.

the ink of my favorite pen
seeps into the threads of my sleeves.
i sit, watching it spread across fibers
to infect new lands and
conquer old stains.

my ship never had a sail but
my hands are strong enough oars
i can carry myself across oceans
treading night after night
until i reach you on the shore.

your gift was always
the simple things.

all the unplanned clichés.

you remember.
those kisses in the rain
whispers meant for ears of lovers
the late-night walks to nowhere.

i can never forget
those ******* clichés
or how they seemed
so original to me.

maybe it was love, maybe it still is.
maybe that's all love is, or all it was.

(thoughts like these
tend to complicate
the pains of a poet)

though our time was just an inhalation
of adolescent affection,
i still see your smile in the rings
of my coffee.

i still feel your fingertips
between the hair of the trees.

i still have some of your gifts.

you remember.
pressed flowers
goosebumps
scars of gentle kisses.

i won't forget
that your gift was always
the simple things.

you never told me you needed me
just lists of other things deserving your attention.
your dreams were what was most important to you
and i can't say i blame you.

people are fault ridden creatures
after all.

i don't get lonely anymore.
the stench of coffee
and the staggered breath
of the same old records
keeps me.

my only frustration is that the music was too short
the dreams too painful
the quiet too loud.

the space between tracks is where i live
that repeating abyss you can't ignore
as you await the next song
hoping it will take you from this place.

it's odd how we never think anything of the silence
until it blankets us
and is the only thing left to talk about.