To my dearest

I didn’t mean to pluck

The petals off your flowers

I’ve come to find

The garden of thorns

And dead roots

Seem to suit you

Better than any blooming

Colors could ever do.

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

~



Perhaps…it is the light,
reflecting in symphonic visions from dampened roadways,
serenading my heart in melodies of whispered thoughts,
painting lyrical lilacs on a gray canvas
with fraying edges


even as clouds connect the sun,
I sit alone, on a worn leather seat,
fingers tapping the steering wheel in rhythm with
the endless miles connecting my cultivated dreams
with pictured fantasies that may prove to be just that…
fantasies


still I look,
optimistic eyes perusing spring fed corn row wishes
and sunflower sonatas,
which my heart faces with fevered emotion
and anticipation of each new coming day…


(constantly aware of roadblocks set up
along the shoulders of your heart)


Distractions come as an eclipse darkens the sky
or is it my heavy eyelids causing the detour,
yet my soul is alert to the possibilities
of what might be waiting,
behind that locked door
where silence allows me to hear your words…
written in the wee hours of the morning


an invitation to share this morning with one who matters,
one who touches me, one who feeds me
with a simple hello and a cup of coffee
or something more…fantasies become realities…perhaps

If ever I was accusatory
it's only because I too am guilty.
I try at symmetry
only to end up inadequate.
One who cannot amount to their own ideals
cannot know a single thing.
However certain I am of decay,
I still forget faster than memory would allow me to retain
motes of dust scattered across my library
that were once skin,
places I had been,
not one returning from departure.
No postcards
save for my disintegrated cells who speak only
of transformation.
Hushed in dim light,
scattered across oceans of words whispering,
You're already dead you naive little star.

"Being a whale would be so trippy."