I’ve found another gem in the creek,
it shines with blue orbs in the sun
and white pearls before a coffee
black canvas.  I will keep this one

but I can’t remember
where I put the last one…  time
took it away on travels tragic— mythic—
and I don’t miss it anymore

now that I have you, my shiny gem,
smoothed geode, cracked
down the center
like the last earthquake that struck my passions

terrified I’ll lose you, I put you away
in a perfect box, in the perfect darkness
of a crawl space crack, a loose closet wallboard

where I will never look again,
hidden
by an idea, hidden
by what I need you to be,
hidden with furious passions

only rivaled
by that of a 12-year-old’s rock collection.

Your face, the moon
not unlike craters,
the mark
the scar
the fierce reminder
that there was impact
and after the fact,
a surge of dust
that left me.  Clean and free,
feeling better, like I could survive
another meteor shot to **** my heart’s desire.

Although
alliteration
alleviates
all
affects
attributed to
anticipation,
it will still spill
faster from the quill
than assonance.

She has cooties,
that taste like
candy cake, bad breath
that smells like
caramelized honey.
She has mono,
that gives you
superpowers, ******
would be a blessing,
but that’s just a cut
she got from climbing.
If I said, “Is that a fungus?”
She’d say nope, fungi
and I’d say “****
I got the fungeries”
If I kissed you
it wasn’t from lack of trying
not to, but because
your lips looked tasty
and I had the munchies.

Surround me with luck,
because the cranes just flew in
and I want them to stay.

Save me some jawbreakers,
because I want to remember
being a kid in a candy store.

Collect my Popsicle sticks,
rock candy rods and bottle caps,
because I want to remember

every wine dipped evening,
flower grown morning
and poetry painted night

because, I only have five
seconds for the future,
but goldfish can remember

forever,
if you just decorate their bowl.

We are wine with cake
without calories, not
like icing or drunkenness,
but being frosted with intoxication.

We are stain glass caked
with sunbeams, holding light
suspended in time, like if right now,
just this once, it was standing still.

We are fragile but delicious,
like little Eiffel Tower replicas
made from buttery sugar— not hardened—
but the soft store bought kind without directions.

But I’m pretty sure we aren’t
a car window's fracture pattern
caked with cracks,
or shards of a beer bottle
in splattered birthday cake,
or even a recycling plant’s office celebration with catering.
Unless it was really good catering.

So to clarify…
you glass
me cake

It tastes like the Sun’s warm syrup
dripping off dew glazed Marigolds
an hour after morning’s dawn.  

Rolling green plains toasted to perfection
smell sweet on the evanescent breeze
blowing over bakery fresh bread.

The new leaves in the trees quake
with noon’s convection, where
we’re sheltered by the shade

while we eat on our blanket
all day and never get full.

Baffled this was a question you’d have to ask, I sat tremulous.  I’m insular; I’d be enamored with even the most amorphous love, but I’m not inept, and won’t preclude that answering the question is salient.  And although I’m not taciturn, I’m rarely extemporaneous, so please excuse my need for verbose prose in answering said question.
You’re attractive.  Your strong jaw, small chin and cheekbones were sculpted to make your own eyes glow and an artist’s eyes expostulate dreaming of anything else. Don’t dismiss this as delirium, but rather relish this recondite fact—my first crush came in the fifth grade.  It was on a diminutive, outspoken girl, and I was enormous and timid, which developed into a village girl vs. Mowgli, me Tarzan you Jane, King-Kong-Ann Darrow complex.  And although I believe with zealous fervor in your strength, your size still incites the young jungle boy inside me.  And I hope I can say, without being terse, I’m afflicted with a mysterious affinity for red-hair.  
Although I could dwell in the obvious all day, I’ll redirect from the blasé.

Abandon
beats within us both
like hearts to the same pulse,
we don’t coax smiles, we let them slip,
we aspire to happiness like falling of a log.
I have to pry open time’s lockbox and plunder
the night just to relegate the dawn.  Bliss becomes
a tangible ****** making even the most existentially
exasperated docile.  Knowledge that every other thought
is dominated by one another without it attenuating the magic.
Knowing that if all I have to say is it’s raining outside, you
want to hear it.  Twenty-one years of my life I thought
I’d have to hunt love with a knife but you showed me
roaming where you like to wander can wake
the irreverent gods.  It’s your superlative
honesty that’s only for me; that virile
smile in your eyes that bid
doubt vacate my mind

Knowing that if I went catatonic, one reproving look from you would cause my heart to break and force my hands to put the pieces back before I stopped breathing.  If I could, I’d dawn you like a blanket before every dinner, dusk and dream.  And most importantly, we both like crowns.

Amputated human beings, only
gears, nuts and bolts that make up
the machine.  Oh woe, who are we
post industrialization

but the first positive proton
to survive its opposite, the first
fiery bursts of fusion
to breathe light into blackness.
The first hydrogen atom
to find its partner, the first
galaxies to swirl and dance
to gravity’s tune.   We are
the Earth’s first rain, mud puddle
and microbe. The first furry mammal
and the last dinosaur.

We are the last breath of humanity,
the Sun’s last ray of visible light,
the first collision of galaxies
and the last supernova.

We are the last breath of the universe
the silent second before heat death.

We— not humanity, not Americans, or any nationality, not **** sapiens but we, the consciousness that exists to say the universe knows itself— are the widest rings in a ripple, riding waves set into motion over 13 billion years ago.

I wanted to name her Kathryn,
because I knew the nickname Kat
was soon to follow.
Kat put kittens in my wife’s head
so she suggested we call her Kit.
Before long, there was a Kit-Kat
in my wife’s belly.

We painted kittens in the room,
cats cute and fearsome accompanied
the cradle, changing table and toys.

We took classes, and told our friends
we’d raise a fiery feline with the heart
of a lion, body of a cougar and head of a fox.

But a fox isn’t a cat they’d say, but we’d just laugh.
Kathryn will redefine feline, female, fiery, and fantastic.  

But Kit-Kat turned into candy.
We always said she’d be sweet,
like Halloween’s first treat
before you were filled to bursting,

into tears

over chocolate,

when it was gone.

When my day,
like a flask
is empty
Chances are
you're absent,
like the salt and pepper.

On that day
like the green
leaf turned ash
my mind is missing--
run off with the salt
and the pepper

Somewhere
with a sunset,
margaritas,
potatoes
for dinner, and maybe
cottage cheese
for breakfast,

The shakers,
waiting for you
to notice my
stainless steel finish
and how perfectly
it compliments
your eyes.

I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.

My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.

Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.

A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.

Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.

So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.

I'd like to pluck you from the speck of a hot Colorado summer,
sprinkle you with ambrosia until you've grown enormous,
then together we could stomp through the cities
laughing, "Let's make that catawampus."

I'd like to tug at one of your shoelaces in the kitchen,
crawl up your arm and then climb into your ear,
shrink you down with a spell's whisper
and together, just disappear.

I'd like to say goodbye to our titanic ways
then goodbye again to the microscopic,
find our regular size in the fall
once all is well.

Four feet
from a flooded river’s
fierce flow, my toes
numbed by snow passed on—
and ****** about it—
numbed by the roar,
rushing, fighting,
at civil war with
everything you know
a raging river should be,
it got so caught up in its fuss
it challenged the fusion of the sun:

you stand so far away
yellow dot, why not come
and burn this boy, my
ragdoll toy? Stop scratching
at the surface of his skin, coward
come closer, come stay.
I’m only inches from sweeping
him to oblivion

Unaware was the sun to come
and play, she would melt away
a second time, then mist, the boy
as well; both to boil, until their bits,
indistinguishable,  joined the sun
in oblivion.

When we were dancing on the moon,
prancing through the market,
and advancing up the mountain,
the rack was white, bright
and empty.

When we would walk to school,
undock and sail the seas,
and rock the midnight scenes,
the rack was clean, unseen
and empty.

Now I stare, loving
and loathing the rack.
Now there are shoes.
*****- worn out white.

They lie there, cold and still-
empty shells, their spirit missing.
No dancing or prancing,
no walking or rocking.

Just rotting, still
and alone.

there’s more
than 1 theory
in string theory, more than 1 dimension too
sometimes 4, others 26
all of which but few
are flat

genus 2 donuts would have less dough
some things are super
symmetrical, quarks
didn’t exist ‘til 1968, my attention span
shortens
to 5 feet 2 inches, when a String smiles back.

it’s intuitive
that 2 quarks attract
when pulled apart.  a tachyon
fits cross legged
in a chair.  gum pops sing
and the theory is boring without fermions.

strings absorb in the D-branes
of blue eyes
and matching glasses. stray
hairs, electrified with brilliance
warrant cats
that even Schrodinger knows are alive

after William the ******’s love poem to Ceslie*

like unfolding the sun. like
leaking lava-lamps. like
******* stars. like

ancient language lit
by flashlight.  like
candles warming
keyboards. like

whiskey soaked
eyes weeping.  like
emptiness that keeps
on hoping. like
sick of smiling

when it doesn’t make sense

Today you saved an earthworm
stranded by the rain.
You picked banana strings
from my soggy cereal,
and told the ducks by a frozen lake
not to worry, Spring’s sun
was dawning soon.

Today you were a hero.
You smiled upon waking,
worried I let my limbs go
numb and tingly, knowing
I wanted you to sleep,
and I just smiled—
I wouldn’t wake you
for the world.

Today, you are a hero,
because you buried love.
Today I’ll be a hero too
digging right beside you.
So today we are heroes,
fighting for our hearts
bracing for the hurt
barely breathing
passed the dirt.
Heroes.

I sever cement
crack crust
and launch magma
into China.

Stride slices air
sending eddies
like hurricanes
into cities.

I flood my wake
with sweat,
and you will know my presence
by the stink of mortality.

Only giants left breathing,
titans, gods and heroes.
As I run past the unlit horizon
I whisper to the slumbering sun,
and bid him kiss you good morning.

Sunrise between leaves
ignites neon green glowing—
exploding the sky

the graffiti sleeps
yellow waiting for their disk
of light like mixed paint

coffee ambrosia
wakes us with eggs and sausage
to reality

Clear Creek washes us
clean of sin or innocence
blank slates for a day

Beer, tears and smiles
meant for you, me, meant for us
fleck public places

laced hands and sweet talk
interrupt clever timers
launching adventure

Margaritas drown
studying sailors at sea,
setting new courses.

lamp light turns moon glow,
wet metal bench, a warm bed,
flip-flop footsteps, dance

I pray to goddess
the divine will sleep in peace
forgetting our sins

Not sure how it really works
I go and ask the clerks.

Ages five and up…
it’s hard to ******,

he said.

Really? It’s simple?
Give an example.

Turn on the boy and he'll find the girl.
Everyone's given it a whirl,

he said.

*******, I’ve already:

poked out my eyes,
which left them leaking.
bruised my thighs,
which won’t stop aching!
and sealed my heart’s demise
for future breaking.

Stunned and oblivious he cocked his head
opened his mouth and said:

You’re doing it wrong.

I stared at the hollow plastic black handles,
disgusted.
my blood shot eyes burn within the cheap
yellow tape
used to keep the covers on so they
stay sticky.
red print, black letters, yellow tape
so ugly
I looked at their cold metal tan shelf with a
sticky stain
then up at the gas station attendant, a fat
greasy man
in an unwashed t-shirt stained with
armpit sweat
who stared at nothing, mouth agape
and useless.

I thought how little care went into the
lint roller,
one purpose with no need to be pretty
or perfect.
how little care his mother put into
raising him,
how little care he put into himself,
sickening.
disgusted I lifted my gun with ecstasy
and fired.
a smatter of red decorates the bland
station walls
that shines with rapture in the florescent,
dimly lit lights.
lint rollers only have one purpose, so
I leave them.

**** imagery.
What have the faded stars
ever done for me?

**** metaphor.
The cave that’s black
without my torch.

**** simile,
like ****** timing
and mistresses.

**** rhyming.
I’ll say to you,
just keep climbing.

**** alliteration.
I’ll illustrate irritability
inked in inevitability.

**** me, because
I love the stars
painted on the cavern walls,
mysterious midnight rendezvous,
digging my fingers into rock and dirt
like fish love to flirt with waterfalls,
but most of all I love to set
your sails atop my sea,
who pirates named,
our poetry.

Let it rain on ladies clothing,
bright young faces
and warm damp
places.  Let it rain
on scorching sands,
hibiscus petals,
and rusting metals.
Let it rain on fallen leaves,
through steaming breath
which, so soon knows
death.  Let it rain.
Let it rain the last drop
of sunshine from existence,
and whet the world with
darkness.

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
It took courage to cleanly twist and taste
to find it too, was delicious.

She lifts a heavy lid to look into the trash
finding shriveled sisters on skeletal stems.
They had hung themselves atop
their vines, wasted gems.

She caught a peek of the clever cook’s salad-
all green grapes served as superior fruits
oblivious to their missing colleagues
grown from identical roots.

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
Because the cleaver cook took no chances
the patrons will never know

purple was delicious.

My nose runs through plastic flowers,
dad close behind, brother
somewhere— camouflaged— in front of me.

Our prey is close.
The savanna grasses
dried and woven into baskets
but we stalk through them all the same.

As we close in, crouched among hippos
crocodiles and wildebeests
pushing orange shopping carts, we crack up,
roar, our prey hears us and we duck

into the nearest aisle of knickknacks
before she turns around,
all the other animals glaring
but Dad doesn’t care

because his cubs aren’t fighting
or fussing
they’re hunting with their father.

As our prey nears the checkout
we pounce
and she gives Dad that look:

I thought it was Mom’s “I can’t believe
you made the kids **** me” look
but it was the
“Everyone’s staring at us” look

As Dad just smiles
mane waving in the air conditioning
and pretended to eat Mom’s neck.

Still winds catch silent and intent
sun beaten faces.
Dusty fingers effortlessly stretch
and find broken bits of sandstone.
Rapt eyes
never leave the primordial pool of sand
before gentle hands bestow return.
Like the two year old tosses pebbles
into the flush of a creek,
and the fifty year old throws
horseshoes to the metal marker,
we meditate.

I wanted to cry
but couldn't—22 year old American male—
so I laced up running shoes
no jacket
just shorts
12 degree punishment.

I needed to get away
from a silent phone,
an empty inbox
so I could scream out my coward

sprinting over hills
in the full moon's
telling light.
I try to curdle blood
but choke

on vocal cords
bolted in place
by modern modesty

too scared
to sound my barbaric yawp
I yelp
like a coyote

the size of a wolf pup
that only has breath enough
for half a call.

I stop to catch the wind
and with it
howl over and over

again and again
until I scream,
freezing every heartbeat
within earshot.
A single tear
drops on the fire.

Breathing heavier now
in the moon's empty landscape
I begin dragging my feet
slowly toward the agony of a silent phone
and an empty inbox, trying to calm myself
because one tear is not enough.

You,
girl who's starved of passion:
I disappear into you like
a drop of sweat in a sea of desert sand
finding the well beneath.

Buried river,
one drop from the surface boils you
turning artesian spring bringing
flowers to the desert missed longer
than forever could fathom.

New oasis,
let me bathe in your pools,
lounge in your shady breeze,
and muse over your every petal.
Bring me home in the growing seeds
I’ve sweat for you.

Dawning goddess,
don’t vanish or melt away,
and I’ll never let you dry,
forever sweating the water
I drink from your springs,
to find you again and again.

Time stirring in a sermon
stiffens slowly.  The Sun
slips through the window’s edges,
softly shaping foreign faces, peacefully
broken away from the world by birds playing
tag in greening trees, draped with skirts
sewn from the Sun’s golden glow.

Images black
without the back of eyelids
dreaming beyond our benches.

Time set and solid, I get up
and leave 100 closed eyes behind
and walk into a church to see
the same Sun’s beams trapped
inside stain-glass.  Frozen shards,
holding dust, warm each red pew.

I lay down in the emptiness
of the seats, the silence of the hymns,
absence of a pulpit,
and sleep.

I wish I had a reason
to throw it in your face
          stab you to death with it
and put you in your place.

I wish you were filled with reason.
                         I would disembowel your thoughts,
            tear them to ******
                        oozing pieces,
but they’re already mush.

                      I wish there was a reason
you bashed me so with Nonsense,

             **** it— like cheating on your wife—
                                                           and say
                                                           by The Word,
that’s how I live my life.


I wish you’d see reason
             so I wouldn’t have to hack,
                                   smash and splatter,
cackle

rip and tear to get you back


to reality
waiting in the lobby.
A nice one, with magazines and plastic plants,
a fish tank filled with generous grants. A receptionist
with bleach blonde hair, a friend or two
who wouldn’t care that you’d gone crazy
and play it off, like you were joking.

Grey blankets of fog drifted through the dimly lit streets.  The rain only a whisper, softly seeping into umbrellas and jackets.  I stand still, watching as masses of black and brown overcoats hustle from grey cars to dull brick buildings.  Flesh, red lips and blonde hair steal my gaze.  In a sea of black umbrellas, deployed as bomb shelters, hers is still wrapped in nylon, secured with Velcro.  Yet she holds it above her head as though it were open.  Pale hands caress the black handle, and tease the button that would surely shield her from my stare.  Stiff like a gargoyle I begin to wade through the damp and dreary to witness this anomaly more clearly.  From across the street she notices me, her attention stolen by flesh, bright eyes and wet hair.  She crosses the street, smiles and hands me the umbrella.  Without once removing my eyes from hers, or hers from mine she tears the Velcro and presses the button.  As quickly as the umbrella flew open with an awful and startling pop, I disappeared into the sea of black nylon shields.

Dark and stolen
whisked away to stone
and cobble corners

only torches light
the way through
tombs and teeth

of skeletons and
corpses, masses that limp
through darkness

groaning forward
to their yelping doom,
little red rats ready

to take their place
slurping at you like
scavenging

snakes.  Onward you
march toward gray’s
grim madness

hacking through the
goatmen barking
choking on

the tan man’s blood
breaking the darkness
splashing bats

that charge you so.
Lava boils through
the grey gates

clashing against
the storm rider,
teasing every

chest that guides
your way ‘til
you find the tunnel-

The bones that
take you toward
the bat like wings

naked ******* against
darkened walls
bestowing

****** stars.
The fiery columns
of exploding

knights erupt
with swords and
shield that

please you so!
Gotterdamerung,
Grandfather,

The bone laden
levers, cracked
only to bring forth

the demon spiked
in red and purest
evil, aggravating

Apocalypse, fire
and slashing, nothing
but constant swings

‘til silence, screaming
and a crystal lodged
within my being.

Diablo’s end
entrapped,

Within my being.

after Edgar Allen Poe:

Feeling nothing but the arrow, as it’s biting at my marrow,
He smiles some sickly smile, and rides even harder than before.
I cry, clinching my teeth, trying to bury the pain beneath,
Trying to shake my disbelief, disbelief he found me on the moor.
He could not know! But still we rode together through the moor,
His burning arrow buried at my core.

Terror tickles my spine, as I feel my horrid horse resign,
The dark rider close behind, gladly grinning; anticipating gore.
Ears ringing with steel let loose, a sword my hangman’s noose.
Dismounting, I pray to Zeus, “Zeus, god of lightning’s roar!
Let loose your bolt!” I pray to hear that thunderous roar!
My request the gods do not ignore.

Bolts of searing heat strike the swift mount’s feet.
I watch him fall, drawing steel I wait for wicked war.
Quickly to his fearsome feet,  Darkness comes to make blades meet.
My heart begins to beat, beat with fear my faint face wore:
Death I cannot cheat, Death, whose face a smile wore.
Vengeance, his swift stride bore.

My blade met earth, along with honor’s worth.
Eyes still fixed on my fearsome foe, I turn and soar.
Laughing at my turning, lungs and feet now burning,
Stomach sick and churning, churning with his roar.
Him laughing at my yearning, and fear that fuels his roar,
I pray, “Gods save me, I implore!”

Laughter no longer sounding, just my heartbeat pounding,
I turn my head to see the smile, to view which I abhor;
No black eyes beaming, no sick smile grimly gleaming.
Just my mind now screaming, screaming for rapport.
Panic in my soul now teeming, sweat seeps from every pore,
I shake while standing, alone upon the moor.

Had I just been dreaming? Tears of joy now streaming,
I laugh and choke, these fields no one dare explore!
I look around relieved, but instantly aggrieved.
My horse is gone and I bereaved, lying on the moor…
An arrow I’d received.  Now another’s breathing I can’t ignore.
I look up, then nothing more.

stolen, sealed away
in hard stone walls
soft tissue pushes
with every pulse
for freedom

passion stains

drifting through darkness
suffocating
even the earthen prison

passion weeps.

A sun rises
a thousand lifetimes away

purple dawns
the caged heart’s crown.
Blackness retreats through cracks
that grow with every heartbeat’s pound

passion never sleeps,
it beats harder
bleeding while breaking
stone walls
carved from emptiness

trees twisted and tore with their branches
attempting to rip their roots away from the frigid wind
that whipped them and my wore-torn jacket
against my once warm chest.

i saw mid-march christmas-lights
waving on a  mailbox slowly change
from poorly timed holiday decorations,
to faded heart shaped bulbs— barely pink—
******* over choked filaments.

i didn’t look up at the stars
or down at my sneakers,
but stared into a dim lamp-lit alley
hiding dangerous characters,
who probably just needed  a light,
a smile, a fix.

But if this night
was read from a storybook’s pages
the wind would’ve wait for me
to wade through warm air,
faded hearts would breathe
their deepest red,
the stars would pulse to the rhythm
of crickets chirping who danced along
with my heartbeat’s thumping,
and the alley’s unlit cigarettes,

would glow before grins
painted on orange faces.

My children will ask questions, “Why’d they stay behind?” I’ll tell them they liked the desert and had always hated white Christmas'. They’ll laugh. I’ll smile but stop after I think about the baking streets and buildings—the emptiness.  Every day for the last 200 years the news’ doomsday clock counted down.  Eleven billion people ignored it.

Burned inside their homes
knowing life had lost meaning.
Trapped forever.

Three quarters of the world watched instead of digging, building, saving, living just a little bit longer.  We had time, help and everything we needed to build The Underground.  But they said there was no point hiding from the horsemen. Life went on like cinema in fast motion— there was love still fighting behind the madness and dawning doom.

No flowers for you.
A feather to remind us
how birds used to sing.

She had striking wit and long blonde hair that made most people jealous—everyone cut their hair short because of the heat.  Today, it was announced that at our latitude, sunrise tomorrow, the surface will be too hot for human life. We held hands as we waited in line to enter The Underground and watched the sunset. I kissed her forehead.

That was the last time
It was only beautiful,
and stars would be seen.

As the last ray of sunshine touched her locks of golden blonde hair there was no sobbing, no weeping for we knew Earth was finished.  It was lost before the Sun gave up, to billions of bright galaxies glimmering so far from home.  Hope had hid somewhere in the vast void between our worlds, frozen and dying with every scientific discovery.

My children still laugh
and my wife will smile
just a while longer

I dawn thoughts of you
like a gossamer robe
when you're gone.

Coffee in one hand, boxers
and a stained white T-shirt
underneath. A scraggly beard.

At least I have the robe.

It protects me
as I venture out
for the newspaper

from the sirocco
of absence, worry
and loneliness.

I hug my robe close.

Black clouds hurl
tiny shards of glass
when you're gone.

Paper tears under armpit,
concerned coffee sloshes,
hair blows and grease escapes

even after I'm back inside.

At least I have my robe.

It was raining on us, like a cartoon,
just us, and it was hard to hide
when we got outside, as it dumped.

Yet still, no one noticed— which was nice—
when we were sitting
soaking wet in class.

Clear the little storm cloud from your head.
The world doesn’t work that way,
but as sure as water— vapor or droplet—
falls from the laws of physics,
the pilot of a helicopter
could park his firefighting *** right on top of us.

I couldn’t blame him, we burned like wildfire,
but I can still hate him for shouting,

“Told ya it wouldn’t work out!”

Stars glitter in the dark like spilled treasures;
the countless diamonds scattered from horizon to horizon.
Angels fall to the earth, cutting the midnight sky for only a moment.

Shadows dance in the full moon's wake.
A pale earth beckons you to play while all is silent.
Accepting the invitation, brush rustles, and twigs snap.

The fire flickers, dancing with violent grace.
The scent of char brushes up against you as it passes.
Summer's cool black air whispers promise of Fall.

Brooding clouds billow forward with bolts of unrivaled splendor.
Thunder echoes through a dark green mountain valley.
Warm rain gently rolls from smooth skin, wet hair, and smiles.

A warm beam of orange light pierces the purple sky.  
Revealed stand golden rolling hills marked with evergreen.
Morning's mist pours over the valley; sinking and disappearing.

A beautiful young woman smiles, eyes glistening;
her heart beating with love too flawless for this world.
I look up to the heavens with endless wonder, and
whisper aloud, “I have found one of your angles."

Oh  eager member,
                                       how you make a mess of things,
                                        turning long hugs into lawsuits,
                                        adding inches of distance
                                       between closer moments.
                                     You make getting up to leave
                                    a dance between the couch and door.
                                   Stealing what I’m sure is precious blood
                                 flow from my brain, you grow without
                               regards to your destination.  I’ll call you
                             rube, scrub, and newbie, ****** *****,
                           because you can make a mess
                        of even holding hands,
                     but most often,
                  just my pants.
              Sincerely,
          What should be blushing cheeks.

Your legs on top of mine,
sticky, you recline--
eyes wide on a book,
mine droop low
with the wine in our glasses.
The summer heat
hangs in the drone
of a struggling refrigerator

while accompanied by purr
and the cat’s warm fur,
together a symphony
sounding my lullaby.

An arm around you
fingers     laced in your hair
and hands     Tangled
    glances stick
  through     silence
Don’t look
  away    or the other
      will catch     Leg muscles
tense       from memory
  wrapped tightly
        calves   meld shins.  
     Souls
welded before
     first    greetings
and naked minds
                              meeting
I’ll  never      let you go
        echoes through
speaker’s     mesh
            audio to  my visual
and still you think
      you can        clean
this         mess?

I don’t need you,
last time I checked,
there were two lungs
     in my thoracic cavity,
a heart that pumps fluid
     at 2.13 psig,
eyes that guide fingers
with forks to my mouth,
     and feet that parked me
     in front of the food
     in the first place…

…So I started popping
one of your lungs—with that fork—
so I could help you breath,
clamping arteries
and ventricles, poking out
an eye and cutting off
your feet, but
that’s a lot of work

breathing, pumping,
seeing and walking
for two.
You know what,
     I’m gonna go try the dip.

Hollowed out so you could float,
but girl, I’m an ocean, never
believe your safe in a boat,
because your tiny raft
is empty, but could be filled
with the endless sea
of my humanity.

Sink into me.

What you think you need—
what you’ve cultivated into
flowers— I have as seeds,
can I not give you these things?
Surely they are yours to grow.
And I already know which flower
you’d find your favorite.

Sink into me.

Do you have a plan to find dry land?
Surely I will never take you there,
every wave cast from wind—
blown from your own lips—
waters the seeds you
spread yourself.

Sink into me.

Think your lover can paddle
you through my swells,
whirlpools and storms?
I will send my triangle,
her name Bermuda,
and girl, Three
is a Magic
Number

Silly girl, to think you’d float
across an ocean who dreams
of breaking dams, flooding
plains, drowning cities
and civilizations.  You will sink into me,
and be the ancient unforgettable beauty
of the sunken ship, lost at sea,
filled with gold, aging wine
and still currents,
never running cold.

Two hundred and forty pounds, and not an ounce of confidence.
I’ve got weight enough for two women, and a heart heavy enough for three,
but I’m still waiting for the one.

Not a single date to my name, with Senior Prom a week away.  
What happened next, the blind man who walked into The *** of Gold
called miraculous.

It was five feet, four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds of she’s too
good for me.  Miss Horizon High School: the past star of my silent affections.
I cue my minstrels as the fairy tale begins:  

First it was the ‘yes’, followed by a date that ended with a fuzzy crown.
Then it was a quiet love that lived in awkward poems, freed from text
by her appreciation.

Graduation came, the two of us on stage, Valedictorians bringing in the future,
helping turn the page.  Life was like a book, and I the people’s king, the
man who’d conquered everything.

I knew this more than I knew myself, I knew it better than anything
I’d  learned from life.  I was surer than any man had ever been
that this was God.  He exists, and He loves me.

When I’d fall God would catch me, just so I could keep on jumping from
the tree to see if I could fly.  This feeling was His gift, and as a humble man,
I thanked him, instead of her.