outside on the patio, the concrete is cold under my feet.
The wind carries the scent of the freshly cut grass up to my nose,
and it lingers there.
I squint as  look up to the sky once again, my eyes slowly focusing on the sun.
It seems brighter than it should be, like it's the one responsible for draining the light from my eyes all these years.
My mom always told me not to stare at the sun, that it would hurt my eyes.
I should have listened to her. Judging by the dullness of her own eyes, she knew more than she let on.

Running, panting, I would sprint to the alfalfa field
on windy summer days
just to feel the blistering heat blowing across my cheeks
like an oven cracked open.

Maybe I will live in the desert.

In the sandy dunes and hot wind I will find myself
and explore my thoughts and revive my faith.

With sand in my shoes and cracks on my hands
I will walk in Christ's footsteps and drink from an oasis.

I will wander into the desert, murmuring,
"It is late, it is late, it is so very late..."

And then I will wait in the cold for the next day
when I will find relief in the hot air rolling over the dunes.

And then I will sweat.

It's a curious affect, to love hot air
O' wind blow
Find me an oasis, carry me to the water.
My mouth is so, so dry.

My little brother cuts himself
And I wonder about the scars

Imagine that they are more like
the lines inside the trunk of a fallen tree
An indication of how long he has lived
or how fast he grew

and time is a funny thing now
Because it is easy to forget how old he is
because of how old he looks
and on the inside
who knows

I just think of counting rings
on a fallen tree stump
like a warped record

after the day grows quiet
if I placed a needle to the wood
What song would it play?

i am tracing prophecies
on the scroll of your skin
forming my own words
over your tattoos
proclaiming you
invincible
fearless
free

Sum Mer

summer

sum yer

summer thick you
your rind
is splendid
to break

by teeth eagerly
your juice                    (sweet juice

                                            soft juice

                                               coy juice )

it letting
runs so hotly neat

in rills instantly
it clings
to limb and brow

it rolls
it comes out of fair and crisply dying spring
a girl it comes

in short hair
and exactly fraying light

its cherry lush
(from where ardent boyish grinning gush)
is youth sharp in fragrant muss

(and too like would i
in there a bit to tiny die

amongst er thighs a comely playing
i'll a joust of lust to fill their splaying

       )in June time
           a coffee
              and its girl
             were
          they
             and
           i

Reflect her,
if you dare,
over the translucent image
of summer rain.

Hold her
long after her coffee is gone
and the walls are reminiscing
about the days of her scent.

Hold her,
if you dare,
after the rain is gone
and someone else's face
is staring at your obsession.

I won't blame you.

~

She prefers black and white films.

Let's play strip poetry
until we're no more
than two souls
on Bojangles' shoes
tapping morse code messages
to the listening stars,
and should heaven ever hear us
we'll craft music for clothing
and wrap ourselves in symphonies
of the modern night.