architectural mollusks
    are falloping through
                              my brain
                        squeezing past the
                         instincts that
        have kept me down
My instincts,
              once brittle sea stars
                          that splintered
                                    into cracked
                                 peppercorns,
                 are now mixed with
           the breathy liquid
        of squid,
lubrication for
the spiny paths ahead
They blow their ink
between my
inverted vertebrae
      injecting Jello into bone
                           busting through
                        fiber and tissue like
                          fresh-skimmed
                    lavacream
and all my muck
rises to the top
in a neon rawness
that I find beautiful

Soon
my burning crevices
will be cooled
fossils will turn to flesh
and, as sure as knowledge
springs into action
I will make
for the shoreline
like a cephalopod rocket
silky smooth
my fins spun into wings
touching magic
as they glide

you pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm
you fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm

The clerk asks for blood
the stone has run dry
we promise ’tomorrow’
and feed him with wine

dark clouds move faster
the voice of hard wind
it speaks to you only
as thunder moves in

you twist here beside me
and curl like a vine
your teeth in my shoulder
reliving some crime

you hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows
your secrets stay hidden
your tears are so loud

I hear you in the early birds' song
a moon's amity in a scorching firmament

I smell you as the flowers tilt from wilt
fragrance that stops time from running

I taste you by the waters of the deep
thy tears drench the stars as they fell

I feel you through the breeze of midnight
your embrace incinerates the numbing cold

I see you from the brink of the past
one from a million yet the best memory ever

Eschewing that second thought,
let me tell you what I truly sought
come, lock me up in your heart
you, I've no doubt  is a true despot

I don't hold back, life is way too short
can't heckle and haggle like an idiot
on the planes, see  profligacy of robust water
hills are in the reign of wild sun and winds

Here ends the vast fields of ripened  rice,
where prowl crooked foxes eyeing hens,
on the foot hills furious bisons flare nostrils,
as you climb,eager leopard smells blood.

Love is the  fragrance  that outlives the flower,
my trek to the mystic mountain continues where
**** and shroom grow tangled  everywhere
the trek to the love hill, to strike  gold,is in progress,

The sound of cars driving by in the distance,
The sound of trains carrying passengers,
The sound of the night breeze dancing through leaves, making them rustle.

There are no stars in sight as I stare at my blank ceiling, a single bulb in the middle, fused.
I keep my eyes open and the darkness starts to swirl, fading at the edges and congregating at random spots.
The dryness in my throat somehow spreads to my eyes.
The stinging reminds me of soot and fire.

(Remember how you burned my lungs in a forest fire?)

My eyes start to water as I fight to keep staring at the darkness.
I refuse to fall asleep.
I refuse to return to the dreams abundant with your luring smiles, plagued with your careless whispers.

I refuse to wake up from those dreams with you.
I refuse to wake up to another cold morning without you.

Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


**right before has left and the center has moved again