I am unconstrained

Tearing my shirt at the chest,
the sun, rippling and warm upon my flesh,
if I am too much, too raw to see,
avert your gaze, lest go blind


I am Undefinable

For I am the poet and the muse
the stamen and the *****,
both sword and soft center
lucid, vivid and lusciously alive


I am unrelenting

Though darkness wields a mighty sword,
it's no match for the golden light
streaming from beneath my skin
in energetic symphony


I am unencumbered

No lovers mischief or betrayal
can cast even the smallest shadow
upon the sun in which I stand
For mine-own's the truest love of all



I am unclothed

All apology in tatters on the floor
Just the scent of sweat and *** and light
Sweet and gentleness unending,
painted boldly, scars and all
with brushes fashioned from the stars


I am untethered

And none but me shall shape this tale
the architect of my design
will is free and has grown strong
no serpents tongue may guide my way


I am unending,

Powered blue and lily white
I wear my scarlet letter like a crown
chartuse center, vivid and soaring,
Sipping moonlight from my hand


I am unafriad, as of yet unwritten

And should you so choose,

I am you

The moment arose, less like a siren, than a sunrise
And I, I began to confess

Not to a lover, or a priest, or to the lover of a priest
Instead to a rain soaked stranger sitting beside me
who’s eyes afforded me assurance that my burdens
would find safe harbor upon his shoulders

Though I churned slowly at the start,
like a steam engine, rolling downhill, my pace quickened
As I transitioned from casual transgressions down
the rabbit’s hole, rich with growing shards of truth

His knowing glance, like Santa Claus to a wayward child,
set at ease any concern that time was limited
and so I slowed, rather than rush past some truth
that demanded full accounting
while in him I found familiarity that I could not place

Though his words were few, they were will chosen, marveling at how
matter-of-factly he regarded my menagerie of secrets, sins and lies,
always with a short story, similarly slanted, in the life of someone he once knew

And feeling not the least put off,
I reached asunder and pulled the roots
of the most stubborn weeds and laid them plain upon the bar as he,
accompanied by a cup of tea, relieved them of their tenacity, reconstructing them as sunflowers whose season,
now soaked with light, was yet to come

I shared the deeds I did, for what I misunderstood love to be,
and how far I had fallen from the places I once stood,
at which point he chuckled
drawing sticks on a napkins back
to show me how much higher I was standing
since making peace with my reflection

Yours are the stories of the world he said with tender conviction
The lies you’ve told, the chase for gold the fear of ever getting old

They are but songs in the opus that you’ve just begun to write
And not a single passerby out there in the twilight feels less guilty
They simply have not yet found the courage to look clearly in the mirror as you are now

And like a caretaker, he swept my confessions into a pile,
exposing a small scar, circle shaped on his left hand
as he coaxed, then chided them into the silver light
that reflected off the bar  from the street lamp that stood patiently in the rain

Without a word he tipped his hat and set off on his way,
while the bartender, perhaps in kindness, charged me but for a single tea

The days to come were filled with love
and more wonder than I’d thought there was
as I, unburdened, learned to walk, then to run and fly

And truth be told the stranger had not crossed my mind
until the day a careless step left a peculiar scar so very strange,
circle shaped on my left hand

With sunrise came a hunger

So I,
I bit deeply into the peach,
that you’d left uncovered
on the bed

And,
drank the juice
sweet and warm
on my tongue
And down by throat

While you,
you seemed delighted
at how quickly
breakfast came

Then
suddenly famished,
took the fruit
all the way
into your mouth
that you’d not finished
the night before

But,
rather than have you
swallow whole,
and risk
choking on
too big a bite,
I pulled you close
sinking easily into
the unfinished peach,
dripping wet on the sheets,
while sharing the taste
on both our lips

Unconcerned with the mess
we devoured with abandon
while you,
without warning
****** your fingers
into my watermelon
roaring with delight

Apples,
then melons
then cherries,
tearing right
through every bunch

Then,
deciding not to waste the seeds,
we moved instead
straight on to lunch

In bright light, your demons look absurd,
dressed in cheap costume, seams showing,
little more than a sheet with holes to make the eyes,

Yet in the dark, they terrify,
prey on your fears,
tear through your defenses,
twisting your desires into your identity
feeding lies back on a loop
“No one will ever love you”
“You’ve already lost the one”
“How pathetic you are”
“She’s was the only and she is gone”
“He’s the only one that could make you come”
“How fat you are, or you’re too skinny”


And you believing them,  
lay down curled in their scaley arms
convinced that they are silk,
while they devour your
beautiful, perfect center,
confusing intimacy with pain,
trust with submission
getting off on your underworld fantasy
as you plan the eulogy
for your own funeral


In the light, you can see
the victim hood that you wear,
of your own design,
sewn by your hand
and pulled tight
over your eyes

With a gentle gesture
you can slide it up above your soft sensitive lenses
and recognize just how alone you’re not,
like a child who hides their eyes
and believe themselves to have disappeared

Love has not abandoned you,
you my love have chosen to share
your unprotected heart with
people and places,
substances and situations that do not serve you


Yet you’re so **** beautiful,
if you could see your
own true form you’d weep
for it’s too much to behold and yet
you lay with leeches willingly;

you’d laugh at the tears your crying
over some silly boy or girl, who, more lost than you,
did you the deepest favor by checking out of the
twisted motel that you’ve fashioned for yourself

She’s not the only one that can make you happy,
he’s not the only one that can make you come;

you’ve confused lust
and desperation with love,
as the dark is so want to make you do

My love; you’ve arrived here,
in a body that is beautiful,
with a gorgeous mind
and a future, that if you choose, can be so bright

I know it’s hard to leave dark places,
having left many of my own
but trust me on this accord,
leave your hood upon the floor,
and though your demons will thrash and scream
politely suggest they **** themselves as you twist the handle on the blinds  and let the light shine brightly in

We need you out here in the light where demons are nothing more
than sheets on springs that will never touch your light again

We see you beautiful, just as you should see yourself.

Somewhere in the distance an alarm is sounding.

For most, it’s transparent,
indistinguishable from the cacophony
of life’s noisy complexity,
causing no disruption in their slumber.

For others, it’s a whisper, one they
are convinced they are imagining,
hearing things perhaps.
One that causes but a shift from
one side of the bed to
the other as the night
becomes strange,
yet continues

For fewer, it’s an itch, a constant
distraction on the razor’s edge.
Like a dream, almost remembered
that slips away when attended to.
They stir in their sleep,
slouching toward morning,
holding on to night.

For fewer still, it’s deafening, impossible
to ignore, evolution, rising like the sun,
at times blinding in it’s beauty, with
a ferocity that demands an audience.
Those few are dreaming lucidly, fully aware
that waking is inevitable, yet still afraid
of the messy road that lay ahead.
Some have opened their eyes
only long enough to strike the alarm
in favor of five more minutes

For the fewest, sitting up in bed, eyes open,
alarm still ringing, groggy, like waking in a
strange bed, unsure of the surroundings.

Recognizing beauty, grateful for the
day, and the moment, coming to terms
with the messy nature of evolution;
so many sleeping in their bed around them as they
themselves, prepare to have their feet on the floor



And a handful have become the alarm.

Walking among the world,
careful not to disturb those
immersed in the dream,
whispering gently to fewer,
speaking quietly to fewer still,
wrapping their arms around the fewest,
rocking them gently,
and warmly embracing
the handful, reunited with
age old friends.

You will know them through
chance encounter, coincidence,
synchronicity, serendipity or happenstance.

You will find them in song, in poetry, in a
summer breeze, an old oak, in a comment
overheard in aisle seventeen.

Listen closely my love. And have no fear,
even the softest light when awakened
is brighter than the most brilliant sun of
the dream.


Somewhere in the distance an alarm is sounding,

calling you to see your own beauty,
to reject the insecurity,
**** the lies,
to recognize the
demons for what they are,
their costumes,
once so convincing,
look absurd in the light of day.

The lover that lied and the lies you tell yourself will
seem so unimportant as black light is useless
in the sun

You were made for the sun.



Somewhere in the distance an alarm is sounding,
it’s time my love, to wake up.

You’ll find me in the kitchen fixing breakfast, your favorite.

There were more than 200 people
at the party, spread out
across my lawn,
from dusk to nearly dawn,
swirling in colorful pockets
of conversation.

Undetected,
one of them left:   ❤️ U  
out of soap, on my bathroom mirror.  

At first I thought perhaps that it was you.
And then, all at once, I realized that it was me.  
It was finally me.
Thus, I drifted off to sleep.

I don't want you to bother
building up a thick lather,
your shower-soaped hand
moving between your legs,
then reaching the long-way round to
spread yourself wide open, bending forward
just so that you can drag the steel edge of a razor across
your soft skin

I’ve never stood
in a field of wild flowers and
thought it to look overgrown

You don’t need a single drop of perfume
on your *******, near your *** or on
your sheer white tank as I don’t mind
the taste or scent
of your sweat,
dripping
from your summer skin,
glistening in the
afternoon heat.

No need to burn
your soft long locks between
two tongs,
to pull them taut, or blow them dry
to make them straight.

Your curls,
untamed and  
and unpredictable
need no refinement;
I'll follow them as they
twist and turn

I want you my love,
unvarnished,
unapologetic,
unfinished,
unrealistic,
and most
assuredly
unshaven.