As the night
sifted through the light
she watched and faded
as the dark as ink

slowly engulfed her
she waited
she expected
to hear those three
and let the sound wrap
around the fold of her ear
to softly whisper through
to her soul
then out every digit
bringing light
to those around her
there she stood
where straw mostly grows
a vast empty clearing
dark and slightly dusted
with cold
she watched and now waiting
for the warmth and light
to return

brisk and cold
the painted landscape
engraved deep within

set the stage for what has
been built today

that is when I met the light
it glowed across the room
as a beacon, or light house

gentle and calm
the light tickled every sense
affecting the moment

hands stopped
memorized by the light
intoxicated by the glimmer

we rose over the gathering
in weightless laughter

the light filled my body
with every touch

the light was slightly tuned
to me, for me, to see

yes you are my light
I have found you

you are her
the light, that is for me

There is a truth,
in our story.

Treasure in your confused,
curly hair.
Honesty in rain,
that falls on your face.
Finding perfection,
in your sky blue eyes.
The veracity of your voice,
expressed in silence.
Faithfulness of your soft skin,
that quenches my thirst.
Genuine movement,
of you is smooth and knowing.

It is a fact,
a complicated dogma,
that in this doctrine,
we are whole.

In this conviction,
that no rocks could dent.

We are making something,
we both need.

among the bustle of clacking heels
and conversations through frequencies
speaking to someone
you will never meet, nor care to
they sway in the midst
of cemented construction
determined to uphold unforeseen judgement
they are of rats, fussing for crumbs
nibbling on social order
dictating instincts of survival
they shuffle, bustle and hustle
to destinations near and far

however, in this carnage
there is a moment between

it is a moment
lasting, only a few
where an action
disrupts this daily migration
it can be as simple
as a bird floating into view
or as tragic as death

it is that moment between
the bustle and the action
where we find emptiness
a truly euphoric state

the filth of the alley is kind
it is the dust of the office
that coats the brick cubicles

here stands the curved beauty
presented and elegant
as if carved to physical perfection
she sways the men who pass
hoping to tickle the primitive weakness
that steeps within

like a corporate jungle
they compete for position
to meet the daily quota

among the urchins and minions
they are the forbidden fruit
they’re bouquet fills the air
bringing suitors
who choose the exceptional

these retched sales are precise
they’re instrument is physical
product of flesh and pleasure

the red light markets this reality
teasing curious souls
into the cubicles

giving into the primitive weakness
they leave them stripped and bare
cradled by the alley
covered by the filth

the transaction filled
she stands
the curved beauty
and begins this ritual again

Past the moon light
over the tall knoll
under the bows of the mighty

exists a pond
steaming from the warmth of the day
like glass the water is still

it is the stage for countless fireflies
that dance with the evening chill

there on the grandstand
lives the olympian
who gently glides
in silent elegance

looping under ribbons of light
she is the matriarch
of this small kingdom

tucked on the edge of timber
it is here a figure appears

she is not alone

peering from behind the steam
his eyes gleamed
slowly following the white

he examines her majesty
transfixed on ever feather

he watched

feeling strange
he saw what lies before him

a shape yet odd

her glowing feathers she spread
bathed in moon light

her body ached
twisted and full
wings to arms
feathers to curves
beak to full rose
eyes to blue

her hair flowed a gray stream
covering her subtle *******

he fell to his knees
eyes wide
hidden in spring fed grass

his eyes following the slight shadows
of her neck
pass the barren of her belly
down through taut slender legs
he confessed, he declared
that she was his

the maiden now notice
the eyes of another
demands he reveals thy self
from toe to tip
the stunned man stepped
a man of no work or duty
nor rich or fame
he stepped into view

a peasant

her ice blue eyes
weave through his features

their eyes met
and as if fated
they fell at first glance

the peasant with nothing to offer
but, rock of bread

they vowed to each other
the eternal devotion

and with every union
a male shall support
the house
and female shall
tend the house

daily labor
filled with black
stained his skin

the remuneration
was barley sufficient

she offered her talents
of the morphing avifauna

feeling hopeless
they pursued
and flaunted her majesty

the worlds eyes did pay
with plenty

but greed stained
the her feathers

until yet another
wanted the relentless
curves and talents
of the female tengu

the count
made his presence known
he persuaded the wedded

that greed is now what binds
with a swoosh
her majesty was swept

locked behind stone
taken away from him
her love

Among concrete timber
They hover
Through the hard scape
Haunting those who pass
Begging for societies rewards
They float without notice
Without eyes meeting
They are taboo
Not worthy of your court
Or a nurturing society
Sentence to loitering
The ghosts

The ghosts of LA

humble and mighty
a bear leaves behind a trail
the white cloaks its end

The grass can sing
like strings of violins
blades gently rubbing
a whispering sound
ambient and true
the waves
brush your ear
as you listen
to the symphony
as they greet the Olympian
covering the land
with golden ribbon
they play
to welcome the new day

Cut my throat,
let it bleed my screams.
Gurgle the unrelenting,
patience of myself.
Slash the wrist of the empathic,
let the burden flow.
Lend the ears silent,
to selfish voices.
Shatter the heart,
of the half empty.  
Release me from who,
I am.

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

When I think of you,
I compare you to the sun.
Bright, beautiful and warm.

But, when you rise,
I want you to set.
Your bright rays,
overwhelming.
Your warmth violent,
it burns my heart.

Our gradient skies are no longer,
filled with our color.
Your wall of light,
pushed me to nights envy.
Now, I am with the scorned moon.

Waiting — sitting — dark eternity,
for a sun to rise again.
A sun that could share,
my sky.

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.

I am walking.
Pushed slightly, by the northeast.
My companion yellow in color,
fondles the air with his muzzle.

Our strides take us forward.
Galloping cracked pavement.
Exploring familiar arch ways,
of hemlock and bittersweets.  

Our view is panoramic.
With flights honking in the distance,
as they return to the waking land.

We huddle at the top.
Where we watch the day,
tuck away into eves pocket.

This light is special.
It is a sensation of nothing,
and everything.

It fills you and the land,
with just enough.
Then swiftly dims away.

Leaving softly.
Is truly a perfect,
ending.

Magnificent trees
tall and triumph-et, then fall
give life to new timber

Each of us a stream
Flowing over today's trials
Each new splash trains us

You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.

We yearn for control.
Splashing and swimming,
in an ever-changing current.
It will decide when to crash,
when to pull us under,
or let you ride to stable shore.

Everything gets caught,
in this current, even time.
Reflecting yourself,
in glass-like calm.
Or in angry gray waves,
where you’ve lost your reflection,
yourself...

How often do we strive,
for calm waters?
How often do we predict,
the tides?
How often do we think,
of hurricanes?

Why not just go,
for the ride?

You are a garden,
make the promise,
to feed yourself.
Tend your bed.

Surround yourself,
with fertile nourishment.
Swallow in the rays,
of positive energy.

Know what you are not.  
Eliminate the weeds,
the friends and blood,
stealing what gives you life,
what makes you tick.

Know your companions.
Grow and deepen,
your roots with them.
Share the glorious light.

Open your palms, leaves,
to yourself.
Grow, rise, and promise,

to reach to the sky.

Hope, a field,
not yet grown.
Vast, open and bright.
You shine taller,
a giant.
Clairvoyance jumps,
across your mind's eye.
Move swiftly,
tread the path.
Toward the bright,
burst of gold.

Alas, the gold is,
out of reach.
Your steps did not find their rest.
Crouched in half-light,
the darkness creeps.
The weeds take notice,
they grow steadily.
You are no longer giant.

A field now,
lost of expectation.
Overgrown with disappointment.

they come fast
puncturing my very soul
my body only a coffin
if they stay trapped

it is torture
this feeling of eagerness
relentless fists punching
through my very chest

once my sternum breaks
blood, bone and marrow
splats on the digital canvas

pouring out everything
to the last drop
of creative blood

though satisfied
of the ******
what I see before me
is strategic
as a general in war

a visual interpretation
of society
feeding the design of
consumerism

Oh yes this work
of my blood, flesh and bone
they will consume in such
drunk laughter

like cannibals they
will judge, speak, and post
of the visual
that lead them to
experience the indulgent gorge

You murdered me,
during spring.

You said the words,
among elder forest.

It was space,
that divided the earth.

I in darkness kept away,
dying in black.

Light and luster far,
as the sun.

Hand only reaching,
to things and you.

You murdered me,
with space.

Your life a painting
Each day a new stroke
Until you pass
A masterpiece
Displayed to be remembered.

Violins will play a melody
For those who wear purple
You there in time lapse motion
Will fluidly show this
Violins will play a melody
Each limb will inherit motion
Graceful as it is
It will be slow and it will fade
Violins will play a melody
Fit for people in purple
As seen in monarchy
Underneath doors to heaven
Violins will play a melody
For you… the one in purple