She wanders,
guided by her lost soul.
She spills arts,
coming from her pure heart;
She writes words no one can understand,
yet she speaks it like it was kept in her mind
for so long, just waiting for someone to find it.
She is a masterpiece of her own,
but she has a heart of stone.

You will not be meeting me
at the train station,
wearing nothing but a sundress and
the warm scents of
wet desire rising as
a lustful fog
from your steaming forest,
anytime soon.

The heat would **** the sun.

I will not be showing up
on your doorstep,
rigid and pulsing
with the blood of
centuries coursing through
my thick roots,
in the nearest future.

The pressure would crush the moon.

Instead,
I swim in your teacup
and warm baths
while you roam in
the smoke at the edge
of my shadow.

I feel your soft whispers
across the ocean of time
as they float on broken
spiderwebs of memory.

Our love is in the words
between the worlds;
resting in the
wet soil of
an afternoon nap,
we bloom as one.

As the fire of night
descends, destroying
the boundaries of time
and space,
we transcend all that
is cold and unforgiving,
leaving behind only
echos of wanting.

An electric blue hand
reaches out to him
from across an ocean
of thick water as Luna
undresses for all to see.

He doesn't hesitate
to embrace this stranger
from a strange land.

This dark and violent ocean
between their mouths,
with it's terrible secrets and
crushing indifference,
is no match for the
smell of her ink
on her paper
in his hands.

In our astral oasis
the scorpion and the fish
have no secrets.

The shadows have been buried
under rocks on the bottom
of our stream
and
time is always now,
distance is always here.

Here and now,
I feel your fingertips
in the warm evening air.
Fingers on hands I've never held.

I hear these hands
writing a letter,
sliding across the paper
leaving whispers on the leaves
and fingerprints on
the ancient roots.

Another cold night alone
with nothing but the ringing in my ears
and the traffic on the hill
as I grind into sleep.

You are missing from me

I need your smells to welcome me home.
I want your warmth left on the couch cushion.
I have to see girl stuff infiltrate my cabinets.

Please

Bring me yoga pants left on the chair
and random hair ties in weird places
and long hairs on the pillow
and clean dishes
and **** that I would never think of cooking
and stretch marks
and skin products
and grace
and beauty
and soft lips
and smooth curves
and wet folds
and a soft touch
and mood swings
and chub rolls
and dresses, lots of dresses.

Give me your shadows weight
and your insecurities
and fears
and scars
and let me carry
your nothing.

I will help you heal

This cold night,
this tortuous loneliness,
this moment,
Now,

I need you here

Be my sugar.

Cold, dark night. Birdsong.
Shattering silent torture.
Thank you, feathered friend.

Lost in the crimson smear
of your bruised lips,
wading in your milky folds
as time crawls on all fours,
I open all my eyes
and feel the you
in me.

Everything is One

My body,
blood and breath
become yours
as skins blend.

My eyes drink from
your lips and
my lips eat from
your skin and
my skin feeds from
your soul and
my soul is
shrouded in thick shadows,
bound in leathery lusts,
shackled with a will of steel
forged from the
transcending of suffering.

We are One

Each breath and subtle movement
brings me closer
to our core
as infinity
opens inside of us.

We are Forever

Lost in the grey garden of
my dying memories,
drowning in the deep nothing
as I crawl on hands and knees,
I open my throat and purge
the you from me.

Reworked and resubmitted, and this time to stay.
Anything you say can and will be used...


excited utterances,
acerbic witticisms,
utter stupidities,
elegant inanities

can and most assuredly
will be used
evidentially, eventually,
about you
in the court of poetic
justice

as inspiration,
original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo
fathomed long ago, is
us

a Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for
future etch-a-sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than
me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper,
poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible
trash,

the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy

all your lovely revelations
of human frailty
and asininity,
most adorable,
(except for those scarface
treatises I despise as
never justified
self-pity)

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charmes de notre
humanité

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh
so hard
and yet again, even
harder

unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant and genetically improved
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we as the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright
avec expressions most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
funning underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his
protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny
and he will be
the one
future generations recall

when I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars

dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase

write tomes on the
catacombs, where in
jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes
of our mutualism,
your edicts,
pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  
in the year 2300

you err most grievously,
if you relegate
this note
to the dustbin of
simple ditties.

take these words
at plain face,
and
look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am
but a tragic,
empty vessel
for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur~extraordinaire,
street urchin,
word merchant,
all my verbally,
wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything
you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived
embarrassments

A fevered dream
you might say,
rumors and excuses of a
vision of drug induced haze?

a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions
will not conceal
that all my words
were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called
collaborative

this I pen
partly as apology,
partly thank you note,
written notice,
subpoena served,
for as long
as you emote,
my fingertips
will gleefully record
with love abundant
in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in-cahooting

right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
anything you say
that can and will be used...
to express our communitas

Written June 1, 2011