Take a seat and make the face that you'll wear,
somewhere
someone watches what you do,there are
two eyes on you
wondering
why you do what you do,
why you make the face,
why every day you come to sit in this place
as if
you're paying a penance by wearing a mask and
the eyes ask,
the eyes mask yet another mask and someone's sharing
what you're wearing.
This disguise you take on,make up and cake on comes off every night,and
when you're alone,
pared down to bone,
you don't have to hide from what hides deep down inside you.
Take another seat
and meet yourself.

We were bound and dragged,
gagged, unable to speak
weak from starvation,
treated worse than the dogs
on the enforced reservation
but we were once greater than this
we were
The Indian nation
the indigenous population
we were
America.

I wear many hats, as it were,
and among my favorites of them
is the one we call "Musician."

As a Musician,
silence is the canvas
upon which I paint;
sounds are the fibers
of which are woven tapestries.

What is played
is just as important, if not moreso,
as what is not played.

Rests, that is to say "silence,"
are very much akin to white paint, or negative space:
so very often totally overlooked, taken for granted, or seen as 'unfinished,'
a lack of command over the medium in question.

Yet, I find much the contrary:
keen use of such negative space
can imply so very much more discipline and expressive control
than gallon upon gallon of paint
can even begin to define.

I guess I'm just avant like that.
If brevity is impossible, you're yet a novice.
(Now, ponder Law)

~

If you only knew

these feelings I clench in my fist,

locked in endless lingering,

breathing for only this

Painting a future

caused by eternal dreams

found in your…



Smile…



and I too shall smile,

laughing in flowered

blooms filled with heartbeats,

fragrances sifting

along alphabetical fence lines,

counting the letters

found in your…



Words…



send a message,

feeding desires of my visions,

fruited of vine fed bounty,

weaving about my skin,

tempting me to search deeply

the roots

found in your…



Thoughts…



flow freely

within my soul,

beyond scattered butterflies

on the top rung

of this laddered stairway,

padded with beliefs

found in your…



Love…



sets me free,

fits me with wings of chiffon renderings,

soaring to destined heights,

glowing in the shimmering rays

of a springtime sun

in the forever solitude I

found in you…

These days
Dreams and hell
Look the same to me
So I don't sleep

Most days
I can't get the taste of him
Out of my mouth
So I don't eat

Some days
I can't remember
How to say no
So I don't speak

But I'm tired
And I'm hungry
And I'm starting to forget the sound of my voice

as i stand, naked, before a full length mirror
i look at myself in confusion
and i desperately search for why
in every crease and line
throughout every dimple and bone
in between the spider veins and stretch marks
pale skin and scars
this isn't beauty

as i lay, naked, in the warmth of your arms
i look at you with sincerity
and i calmly understand why
in every crease and line
throughout every dimple and bone
in between your blonde hair and blue eyes
pale skin and scars
this is beauty

Some men are so focused
on the act of ***
ridiculously eager to get into it
they forget to relish
the moments beforehand
and after
focused on the getting
more than the giving
Which is where
I would like to think I differ
I like to watch a woman after
as she lies there
in her lovely silhouette
glistening
gently quivering
breathing heavily
eyes closed
as if in some strange
*** coma
or spell
Sometimes a job well done
is in the confirmation
and reward
in itself
Or maybe it just makes me feel
I can look beyond
myself.

She sleeps in the lake
wakes when I dive
when I drown
I survive and I die
wondering why
she sleeps in the lake.

Mixing spit
just
kissing a bit until
the fire is lit and
we burn.

The old iron bedstead makes a good bed at
the bottom of the white cottage garden,and
out from it sprouts,
stinging nettles and a solitary tiger lily,
a filly among the rough,
nature can be cold hearted and tough.

Nesting in an old tub underneath a mulberry bush,
a blackbird sings songs in the morning which longs
to be older,
and an old well now dry but once wished upon by
ladies in crinoline
sits and silently cries out its thirst.
This was the garden to be in the cottage where we
had such sadness and joy.

Many years pass and the footpath falls under the fast rolling weeds,
the cottage now empty is still and
surprisingly white as if
the passage of years has been a delight.

Strange though that I still go to meander,
pander to melancholy in the place where
we kissed under mistletoe
so long ago.