I wander through her word-landscapes,
picking up bits & pieces,
ravishing her spirit
as I go along intrepid.
Baby love and all that stuff
walks with me.
I imagine her kisses,
her fragrance of sunshine.
I see gentleness,
a real tenderness in
her bleeding,
her angst scrawled on the the walls
of my jagged heart,
beating for her attention,
I remain devoted
reading her.

Traditional warmth
Mix of seaweed and tofu
Appetite whetted

The sun rises over this no mans land
This desert is still so unforgiving
There's a blister on the back of my hand,
This desert, remains so unforgiving
There's no water to be discovered here
Only parched throats and shattered whiskey flasks
Cowboys so yearning for an ice cold beer,
None to be found so I don't even ask
There's a saloon on the red horizon,
Where you take your boots off and drain the sand
This place so dry not even Poseidon,
Could bring some wetness to this horrid land
I am so hungry, but I still get by,
But for now I'll rest these, my tired eyes

Delicately-sifting,
kissing,
savoring,
enjoying
soft lips,
hard-tips,
with lips,
a tongue
of my own,
are in fact,
sweet,
wonderful,
satisfying,
sacred-acts,
given to us
by the Gods.

She is the deepest mystery,
dropping subtle clues
in her wake, she shakes
the ground around her,
leaves the lesser
trembling in derision.

Her aura is as radiant as
all the stars in heaven,
certainly an angel,
blinds the lesser,
leaves them
cold in their tracks.

Her touch is
like the finest silk,
the lesser melt inside
her tracing,
heartbroken &
crying for more.

And with one look,
a gaze given
by the sacred,
the lesser
explode like super nova,
forever bewitched,
never,
no never,
the same.

I hear every breath
coming into my lungs,
it wheezes through my nose
as it makes its way inside of me
carrying life-giving oxygen.
That sound alone
makes realize
I am truly alive.

But, I feel dead.
I do not know when
or where it happened,
how or even why
something inside me
has died.

I feel like crying,
raining tears
trying to recapture
the part of my soul
that made me
want to love you.
And I know it will be
to no avail.

For once gone,
broken-spirits never
return to the
scene of the pain.

Endless droppings,
the bleedings of broken hearts
swirling down
onto parchment
for posterity.

Yet in reading,
we see similar things,
patterns of ansgt,
unwavering,
unchanging,
seemingly
forever.

And constantly
we're told,
"That's the way it is."
And we believe them,
picking up, carrying on,
it's the "Same 'ole, same 'ole."

And we remain,
still alone,
always wondering
why
we never learn,
why we
yearn for something better,
something that
may not ever be.

Calculated risk,
the big trick is to know when to
hold 'em or fold 'em

I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.

I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.

Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.

Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.

Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.