Once I sat,
unaware & unassuming,
on an unaware & unassuming Tuesday
in the far corner of a coffee shop
full of commotion.  
I sleepily sauntered
behind the dusty public bookshelves
where if one were to peruse
they may find philosophical gems
- such as Proust or Voltaire.
I sat enveloped in the
warm vanilla air,
clutching at a cup of caffeine
& hoping to gain some
mild morning enlightenment
or gentle mental stimulation.  
I tucked myself between
the covers of a bent & well-read book,
content to remain unaware & unassuming
& uninterrupted
as I wandered through its printed prose.

I suppose he thought I needed to be tamed,
or required reprimandation & obedience training,
because he could simply never
let me BE...
myself without an open invitation for some harsh admonishment
or crippling criticism.
I must have painted a target that begged for his attention
on the core of my soul
because he loved the thrill in taking aim & shooting to ****.
He still colors my characterizations of the men I meet,
who ask me for insight into my mind,
& he leads me to question the intention behind
any stranger's simple gesture.
He told me he loved me, but he held me much too tight
like a petulant child who refuses to share
or suffocates a butterfly clutched in between his hands
- because its beauty inspired a selfish need
to seclude it away for one's self.  
He told me he needed me, that without me he would be left
to falter blindly through a nebulous black night,
yet he stood so close to my flame that it was inundated,
& he smothered his source of warmth & illumination.
A fire needs to breathe if it is to rage & be magnificent
- he knew that & he feared it tremendously.
He taught me to fear myself & undermined my capability
to silence those who shook my confidence.
In doing so he left me teetering on a decrepit foundation
& he so delighted in kicking bricks out from beneath me.
He pushed me down & taught me to be terrified of falling
dreading the arousal of self empowerment & ambition
to welcome an opportunity to pick myself back up again.
He tried to tether me to land,
like a flightless bird
- inert & with no purpose.
He thought he had me hooked like an inhumane bully
who allows a fish to fight his line
until it believes it has once again attained liberation,
then roughly reels it in, relishing in sick indulgence.
He thought he had me tethered,
but I am not worn-out & weathered
like an old leather ball
& I am not to be beaten round in endless circles,
the obsolete plaything battered by systematic violence
made into child's play.  
I said no & walked away.
I broke my tether that day.

& I never looked back.

She flashed her carmine smile at me,
lips spread like two blooming crimson petals,
beauty mark perched in a temptingly kissable spot,
just above her immaculate lip line.  
Her fang tooth flirtatiously turned inward
& made her look as if
always brewing intent to initiate adventure,
certain to be pleasurable but prohibited,
& most surely to provide
ample opportunities to escape trouble
after having taunted it.
This minor imperfection served as a reminder that
her beauty was still human,
or else I'd have believed that
she was the product of a profoundly, elaborate hallucination;
that I had not yet woken from an impeccable dream.
She roused me up from my stupor & seduced me into sojourns
through the city blocks that lined our teeming, little hometown.
We stood out as dreamers
in a land full of people with their heads down
like drones, working for their hive.
She kept me feeling alive,
& questioning the complacency of my surroundings
in a muted, Midwestern mecca
where you are taught to accept what you are told
& swallow down bland traditions & institutions
like cold oatmeal.
She made me wish I was a boy
so I could seize her by the perfect slopes of her
statuesque cheekbones & paint my timid, **** lips
with her carmine smile;
but to play in her paint would be to stain harsh red
across the flawless landscape
of our very intimate understanding
of one another.

& so I long for Carmine.

Kiss the girl whose hair
is piled atop her head,
like her thoughts;
tumbling down in bundles of curls
as they overflow.

Kiss the girl who drags you out
from beneath awnings &
makes you face the rain,
while she dances fearlessly
in a soaked, diaphanous sundress.

Kiss the girl who insists on
preparing you tea &
pouring it in your presence;
inviting you to witness
the intimacy of simple ceremony.

Kiss the girl who breaks
the stillness of occupied space
to reach out & encompass your hand;
seeking the sensation of your being
to comfort her through silent moments.

Kiss the girl who takes
up into her arms
your scattered inclinations & obsessions;
teaching herself to love & nurture them
as if they were her own.

Kiss the girl who envelops you
with her sultry sentiments &
provokes you with her precocious intellect,
leading you to question
all concrete belief.

Kiss the girl whose
very existence embraces you
like a contented sigh or the kiss of sunshine
one might play beneath
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Kiss that girl & kiss her deeply,
& with considerable intensity;
as if to break the seal between your lips
would shatter her
into a thousand pieces.

& do not let her go.

We house a soul
from time to time,
but often find our corridors
left empty.

No house can stay full forever,
lest those filled with zany dreamers
who seek thrill beyond their own
four walls.

Souls do travel
from time to time,
like old visitors who leave tips
on the breakfast table
of their favorite inn,
shortly before seeing themselves off.

Souls may stand
on our back porch while they torch
a cigarette
and quietly ponder on minute,
existential mysteries.

Souls may seek comfort
sprawled at our fireplace
or perched atop a kitchen bar stool,
seeking to feel the comforting
complacency of domesticity.

A soul may find
that cozy comforts are ever elusive,
exceptional to an existence in which
the most stupendous feel bewildered
and insignificant.

Alas, such is the nature of a soul:
from time to time,
a soul might not recognize
its own might.

A soul will fight to find a home
and seek comfort from its peers,
but a soul does not often hear
the invitation to call a place one's own. . .

Home.

We are not souls, we house them
and from time to time,
if we are lucky,
our houses open their doors for more
than just one stray soul
to invite himself in.

If your home can house many
it houses the greatest of things,
above all else:
Love.

When I was young,
& dumb,
& drunk,
caught in that summer between teenage rebellion
& shipping off to towering landscapes
begging for rigid responsibility held
in the embrace of adulthood,
I sought to sharpen my wisdom
by dulling my senses and searching
my timid teenage soul.

When I was young
& dumb,
& drunk,
trespassing on the high school roof,
staring out over an empty parking lot,
I told myself,
and beside me
the fellow undiscovered,
misunderstood teenage dreamer,
the basis of the harsh reality we face:

Everybody is looking for
the right person.
But no one is trying to
BE...
the right person.

The silent gasp of sudden
drunken realization
elapsed his lips before he could lasso it.

The realization that neither of us
could claim we were just,
or striving to be
anything beyond bewildered and lost in
the confusion accompanying coming of age
kept us company through
that dusty summer night.

Is madness really madness
or the waking scream that
brings us to, keeps us on
the brink of realization
that we are alive?
I feel most alive,
on fire inside,
when I am near you.
When I lie beneath you
and you dive inside to
hold the pinnacle of my
being in your fingertips,
I feel completely safe in
the embrace of my vulnerability.
I have complete faith in your
adept ability to complete me
without eclipsing me.
Doves were never meant
for cages anyway - nor was love.