Everyday believers,
habit creatures.
Swimming in silk and
holding down the receiver
all shaking from the speakers.
Toes gripping harder in
tune with the bass,
nose to nose, eye to eye
tongue to ear to face.
Dark lines, white lines,
dripping and drying and
laying in ink, yours and mine.
Everyday believers,
habit creatures.
A song behind the papers.
Ground littered.
***** snow and window fog,
the four walls all painted
over and over and over.
Old town.
Loud street.
Everyday believers,
habit creatures.

Northwest autumn turns to winter
Damp leaves, slipping on uneven ground.

That is, of course, the rain.

Under this criticism
the red orange yellows
behind the backdrop of electric
blue,
wet eyes, wet face, wet hair
and a suspicious swagger
over boots and coats and windbreakers.

The winter comes,
defeat of the sun
for a charcoal blanket
and a slip fall break
of twigs caught in the spokes.

this creative sea
you, me, us
a cavalcade of pronouns
dead tigers
swimming and spinning
through cascades of metaphor
and simile maldefined.

so sick of seeking truth
a battle poorly placed
awkward timing
skinny lines
of belief, disbelief and nonparticipation
waiting for clarity
in the waves of obscurity.

“as you know, we’ll never know
and blindly ford the river of paint
horse hair in hand
to an actualized bank.”
scoffs, she does, and moves face and nose to her art
up for air, and down again
actualizing the truth
that was never there, always.

There is no creativity in sunshine.
Absolute light in stripes and dots,
seeking meaning in descriptive plots.
Statistics and vibrations
have no place in conversations
about the weather.
If you keep looking at me like that,
gray eyes so warm and quizzical,
I’ll try to grasp some kind of meaning,
some sort of fleeting feeling
in your confusion.
the sharp back twinges and hits,
hips and elbows and fingertips,
grasping, reaching,
forever teaching
to be calm and content
in melancholy and nonchalance.
There is no creativity in sunshine.
Gray clouds add depth
to the skies, and your eyes,
add a level of complexity to our path,
avoiding rain using complex math,
spatial patterns, infinite maps,
lines and layers, moving fast,
seeking sunshine to escape the past.

With the blank slate before me
I recognize that memories, like secrets
are hard to keep.
Watching the white on the empty canvas
I remember the white on her dress
which deteriorates to purple and blue, with time.
Even her eyes, so many hours spent staring
are fading away.

But even in this mess of
failed relationships and
melting pools, even in this,
I believe it is
still alive, I believe that the sparks and spikes
and blocks of ice are just as cold as you
remember. I want to dance in the snowfall of our youth,
the fountains freezing as soon as the
liquid hits the air. The chill that permeates the
skin, the wind blowing through
veins. I find myself wanting, wanting.

But we keep keep on keep on
moving forward as
new obstacles emerge, protruding from the ground
four feet, five feet, six feet in front of where we are
walking. The smooth path is neither hope nor
memory, just an echo falling off the
cliffs in my subconscious.

But this is this is all we are.
And we go go hush hush
crouched in gardens hidden by roses and daisies.
And the daisies remind me of her and
her pink green orange dresses that all fade
to gray looking back in the fog.
That trip over the bridge took
so long on a broken tandem bicycle.
I could barely see the fringe of her skirt
get caught in the chain.

When I rediscover the artifacts of our
lost romance, the tube of rose-colored
lipstick leaning nonchalantly
against a corner in my bedroom
I switch, sweep it all up
into a pile that holds a decade of color
threatening to burn a hole in the carpet.

But my dreams are losing it,
the faces all ****** and solid
the movements rhythmic and calculated
the reds and greens and yellows turning to gray
the outlines coming in, minimizing the frame
until I’m left with a blank canvas
a scorched carpet
and a palate with colors ranging from white
to white
and back again.

While you watched me watch you watch me,
your eyes darted back and forth,
inspecting my left eyelid, my right eyebrow,
my left pupil, my right iris.
Your brow furrowed, an involuntary smile
creeping across your face
gave away your intentions.

Our noses touching
you leaned forward, turned your head
slightly, narrowly missing collision
and pressed your lips to mine, slow,
with passion, conviction.
The corners of your mouth turned up,
our eyelashes engaged in whispered conversation,
our fingers twisted together,
sharing secrets through squeezes and taps.

You moved closer, our hips
touching, your arms
wrapped all the way around
my tiny frame, your breath
slow and even and sharp with desire
and anticipation, saying without saying,
"I want to be closer, can we be closer,
can you hear me, do you feel it."

I rolled my ankles and stretched my
toes, lengthening my body and leaning
on your bones, kissing you softly
in the spaces made for quiet brushes and
accidental contact, my hair on your neck
tickling and shaking and making silent
promises. I buried my face in your
chest, wanting to be inside this feeling,
wanting to put it in a jar and to display it
prominently for all to see.

That night we lay together caught,
swaddled and sheets and lost in
each other, starry eyed, content.
Lost, but not alone.
Explorers.
Wanderers.
Adventurers.

Separate in satisfaction until we awoke,
grasping for hands and moving closer still,
ecstatic in clutched embrace,
emphatic in anticipation for contact to come,
euphoric in a sea of effortless ease,
and content in the lazy morning,
tracing shapes,
feeling the world in tiny twitches,
subtle movements.

While I watched you watch me watch you,
my eyes darting back and forth,
a sly grin slowly appeared
and I pulled you closer.

I don't remember if it was
two or three, the hour of the
night (morning) or the times you
said that you'd like to be nowhere
anywhere, tall places, submerged
locales, you said you wanted to share
these spaces with me, you wanted to share
those places.

I tried to breathe on cue
with the rise and fall of your
chest, but your breath fell irregular
with gasps and sighs like a rollercoaster.
Your arms fell at your sides on top of my arms
at my sides.

What is that noise?
There's a crying baby and a
scratching sound -- the record
needle catching dust in the groove --
and footsteps and water from the hallway
skipping into solace
in this glowing, blanketed fortress
where we hide, grinning.