Fare thee well by islets of time,
Beauteous blooms of fragrance; of thyme.
Gliding symphonies beckons thine eye,
Gentle minds float toward sky high.

O cues sung by the siren, allure!
Once, fusion of reason borne pillar.
Twice ponder, may our paths entwine,
Thrice to act, unlike the tranquil Seine.

Like angelic enigmas par Euler,
Soar upon the painted auric frontier.
Air fresh: an ebullient morning dew,
Wisdom: moisture for the thirsty few.

By spring fountain, if thou art inclined,
Bright sparrow among the bovine herd.
Lo, argent quarry of dust- liquid guile,
Behold, product beyond thunder- gale.

Scents of lavender assail thy sleep,
Euphoric dreams, we welcome with glee!
Sleepy horizons, a glorious dawn,
Morning filled with a trillion suns.

Some time, some day: travel the stars,
Mortal shackles unchain my awful maw.
Pupil of Aristotle, Darwin, and Vinci,
There lies truth; a transient hierarchy...

I look at my wrist and see little grapes clustered were your fingerprints left tiny hints

of maybe too much pressure

purple and blue ink stains where you grab me ever so softly

(or firmly)

around my waist and in the hard lines of my collar bone

like blackberry juice after a long day of picking type stains,

different stains are left on the skin on my neck

and the start of my *******, but these are lighter

and they do seem to flutter in lines down my shoulders

the ones that do make me moan more

the ones that do bring me closer

The poet in me
Licks the poet in you

To savor your words
On the tip of my tongue
On the flesh of my lips

To taste what the muse inside
Inspires you to write

To feel your letters
Conspire into words
Filling me with literary euphoria 

To play with your lexicon
Rolling every word on my tongue

The poet in me
Wants to lick
The poet in you

So that I can know
The delicacy of your literature.

It's 1:15
you could be asleep
so I don't want to call-
and wake you

or maybe you're lying on your side,
restless.
imagining the quiet form of your
other part
while I sit in state
and do the same

our fingers waving over
the sides of our separate beds to grasp for
the phantom warmth from a month past-

one puzzle piece in the north
another in the City.
there are holes in our existences
that we  can't seem to fill
without both our shadows pressed together

I see our future-
the promise of colours,
jokes, clasped hands
and ***** dishes
So full and ready to be picked ripe
off the tree

but on the other side of the glass
the window's not yet
primed to be broken
Impatiently you hammer
perturbed, I tap.

'Please', I pray.
let them make spider cracks
so I can just
reach you
halt this nonsense,

and be with my Love
again.

Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."

In the hanging kitchen, the smell-
cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices
the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed.
Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl
friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty;
don't look too long.)

At times I feel sick.

American man he
strikes the figure of a half-God
broad-shouldered, burned
he does Not exist, John Henry
split his bust long ago and we
are huddled small boys imperfect
in the dust of his legacy.

Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed
wives were kissed by children one last sip of old
wines and walked into the night looking
for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains.
Ate stone. Drank mist.
(A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.)
Fell into the grit, the failure, fell
into everything.
(Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)

I have nothing but my understanding.
I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved.
Or to go out in the wicker
world, there to find whatever our best
died looking for, tigers or ruins or
a life after adventure.

I heard silence in the cobwebs
of your soul
while everything else walked
as if lost
inside of the belief
that all you see is black and white.  
Then, I watched you crawl in search of truth
among faces with eyes
that held the illusion of everything
you think you want in life.

Your fingertips seem to know more
about your emotions
than your tears do
because you touch each hurt
your heart mentions
until they bleed.
I watch you pause,
and look over your shoulder
for yesterday
almost as if you wish
it would never leave.

I wonder if you will ever learn
how simple
the feel of your own skin
could be
if you would just not let anger write its name
on your walls carelessly.  
Perhaps then, you could see the sunlight
of a brand new day
and accept the shades of gray
that color me.

My heart played notes
inside the margins of time
in repeated sighs
while the world kept rhythm
on my self-esteem
with the feet of strangers.  
Still, last night
I wrote lines about life and love
that whispered come dance with me,
kiss away........
my jaded words of anger.

I raised my glass to life
then ran
from the very air I once breathed in
and called a masterpiece,
because each breath I took in
made me stand tall.  
Until, I found I had been feasting
on teardrops telling me
I had gone astray
each time.......
they'd start to fall.

You were there all along
singing I love you
underneath my skin
while each breath I took
cried out
inside the margins of time perfectly
and my heart played notes
until my teardrops dried
on the feet of strangers
walking.......
on the heart of me.

Sometimes, it seems that everything
my heart keeps as truth
I take with me
and lock deep inside of I am sorry
as I breathe the air twisted in the places
where I sleep.  
Yet, there still exist nights
where there is no bed I can dream in
where I do not hear a melody
that feels naturally sweet.

Often,  I stand in the corner
of all I have missed
then find myself walking proudly
beside the wildest loneliness
lying deep inside of
my stubborn heart.  
Then suddenly,
my head clears inside of a silence
and I write poems
from the hands of angels
until the wildest loneliness
has to part.

There is a part of you in me that wants to run;
A fear of sameness that once drove you from the sand.

There is a part of you I am looking for in my chin;
A boldness that lingers somewhere hidden under my teeth.

There are parts of you crammed into my shoulders;
A stubbornness filling up nearly every doorway.

There is a part of you in me that is smiling;
A pride like when you call me your son.

There are parts of me that are singing,
I am certain it is your father's song.