Like a wind that blows my sails
Or a smell that melts my mind
We drift like shells that crash in the waves as the ocean wails
The sun on my skin as a reminder,
With the warmth of a body near my side.
That electric shock given to me by the responder
Could never make my heart beat back to the pattern that hit so hard I would have to hide.
My hands in front of my face and I tell our time.
I only know a few words but I know how to call you mine.
No direct possession of that breeze I feel,
But in my skin I begin to heal.
A claim to love, a claim to see.
It's not a claim to own even though that's what the words read.
I can't own a sound or the wavelength you're on,
But how else can I learn to appreciate the love before it's gone?
The air is too strong and too free
To ever belong to a human like me.
With wings to pass my sails and carry my soul,
You could never be mine or make me whole.
There's more to be in our sky above,
The world will revolve around love.
I won't ask you to be mine.
I won't ask to be yours.
We have so much time
And have opened so many doors.
The ocean can drown me and the wind can drive me.
I love my journey, the sky behind me.
I can't make the Angel mine,
But the love of the world will be just fine.

The prison bus
passes this way

every now and then,
surfacing without

warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass

its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire

its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that

turns morning rain
the color of seawater.

The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;

red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.

When the bus strikes
something in its path

the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,

lifted into
impartial air

liberated
momentarily

by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.

In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.

the radio is
broken again
and this time
is the last time

Your songs no longer
fight the static.

the crunchy hiss
the empty stutter
between pops

crackling cackles,
unplugged from the wall
still playing the song
of something ending
into a new beginning

Your songs no longer
fight the static

but I still hum
them to myself

at the edge
of our universe

BG-4/8/17

Stomach plummets --
Cold blooded fear
Expressionless eyes
Open wide, mechanical
Blinking -- quit thinking
Go about your business
Don’t even nod
One foot and the other
In a perfunctory march
A slip and it’s over
They’ll turn and then stare
Raise up a finger,
Eyes bugging, mouth hanging
Expectantly before it comes:
Loud distorted ringing
The sound of your demise

Wildly clanging bells, soundless--

housed worship withdrawing

senses...your button black pupils

struck dead.

Alarmingly alive, wearing *******

vengeance in pure.

Both Christ and high priest tearing

open your skin, to shed a

blasphemous tour.

Exemplar energy transference,

popped cellophane wrap round

mileages of barbwire.

Eavesdropper, peace-fingered

tongue thru fangs...plunged in

red rondure, swell fruit.

Salival juice, moonlit seafoam --

hard jazz tripping your wire.

Asked to Come again--questioningly

striking, you always come again

on the flip side, straight up.

That notched spine: O sole mio.

Bite till darkness takes cover

in me.

Amongst the barren trees and evergreens
The beautiful white leaves of the pear trees
The low lying bushes begin to green
The crocus and tulips at full bloom
It must be Spring

Provided no more tears,
Fall down on ones head.
The rain may continue,
Yet not from dread.
Is there only horrors of life hiding in the wait?
Are there no more avenues for one to create?
This beast of burden I've carried,
So long kept concealed.
Always remaining calm,
Storms brewing infield.
A moment of silence necessary,
For those still living.
Let your mistakes be many,
And always forgiving.