You lean on me, the horizon you forget to name.

I hold the weight of your storms,

turning them into songs the earth understands.

When I am gone, the wind grows teeth,

and your words, sharp as broken shells, scatter.

Yet I remain, woven into the weave of your breath,

an ache, a promise, a steady drumbeat of love.

The air shimmered, alive with its own trembling pulse,
and I felt—yes, I felt—the veil tear, thin as gossamer,
wet with dew and dreams.
The mushrooms, small and unassuming, lay in my palm
like a secret too heavy for words.
I ate them,
and the world unfolded,
petal by petal,
a flower blooming backward into itself.

It was not the self I sought—
not at first.
No, it was the taste,
the salt of knowing that clung to my tongue,
sharp and metallic,
like the tang of stars fallen into the sea.
The ground, steady and loyal all my life,
buckled and sighed,
and I slipped,
I drowned—
oh, willingly I drowned!—
into the land of fevered dreams,
where shadows wear faces
and light bends to its own whims.

The Self—what is it but a vapor,
a mist rolling out to sea,
always receding,
always somewhere else?
I reached for it—
a hand outstretched, trembling,
fingers brushing its edge—
but it dissolved,
scattering into the sky,
a thousand tiny stars.
"Come," said the stars,
each one a voice,
each one a wound.

Time folded in on itself,
its moments dripping like candle wax,
melting, melting—
and there was Truth,
naked as a child,
unflinching.
She beckoned,
her eyes sharp as glass,
her mouth full of salt.
"Do you dare?" she asked.
"Do you dare taste what cannot be untasted?"

And I—oh, I—
drank her down,
her bitterness, her fire,
until my tongue burned with her name.
What was the Self then,
but a shadow cast by flame?
A ghost dancing in the ash of knowing?

Still, I search.
Still, I wander beneath the sky,
its stars like open wounds,
its silence like a hymn.
And when I find myself—if I find myself—
will I recognize the face?
Or will I merely see
the salt-streaked reflection
of the sea I once drowned in?

one more critique, too slowly realized,
no poet him,
unamong those who sea the world,
in metaphors and auroras,
in skeins and skins,
from brown Earth to Red planets,
worthy word weavers of
tapestries, imaginary life forms extant,
green skies, bluing floral gifts,

+that jes that ain’t me

nah,
more a working wordsmith,
telling stories in a workmanlike fashion,
medieval scribing, copying downloads of
what might mine eyes seen, believed,
recorded for all for
your accompanied precision tooled pleasuring

no pretensions left, the doc reports,
I’m a technically a heart failure, and
laugh~reply, that’s no surprise to me,
in matters of the heart,
luck ain’t been
overly kind,
(till recently)
and you can flunk that
test just so many times, before you no
longer get~set sir-prised, just reprised,
and that’s when you get clarity,
you “don’t think twice, its alright,”
plug those words in a nice combo
ain’t exacting poetry, but I don’t mind,
you can only do,
for what you got an affinity,
that’s not sinning if light/life is dimming,
and that’s got to be satirical, ironically, both entirely dissing and satisfying

anyhoo, it’s just about 646am,
coffee is made but not yet served,
the kitchen needs some fussing and tending,
bring in the paper,
dishwasher and dryer overnight whining,
pleading for closure finale
from their *** night time
**** wet escapades
THEN
organize them riffraff,
those upending draft detritus that
constitutes a working man’s load, and

a wordsmith,
lights the forge,
forges words,
foraging
in the unlikeliest
everywhere
to turn a phrase from a
dark brazen haze taken,
into a semi-polished stone blade
sculpted by,
heat and hammer and
always tears

maybe a miracle,
into useful shapes, and hope some
tourists stop by, thinking that if framed,
it might look good in their kitchen,
and give me 5 bucks even tho that
don’t keep one in smokes no more

yup, that’s about it,
says the wordsmithy,
no mystery ‘cept them
that one can let mmm,
egotistical notions fool
ya for far too long…
and that’s
entire your own fault…

l
and yet, always,
always and yet,

gave the best of me,
met my own standard,
and that!
is all any poet can say
when employing
only
two prime cooling colors,
black in white,
with the oddity of a
clashing but dashing
modicum elicited,
but not solicited,
pride and modesty