Man.
Woman.
Ghost.
Little wind in their sail.

Boat.
Watercraft.
Impulse.
Limited space on board.

Free from heart. Free from clothes.
Drunk together for a swim.
Errant, disinterested kiss, planted
under the keel.
A sparse ****** isosceles is struck.
Parts are muted and slit-eyed.
Parts are surface tension.
Parts are counterparts.
She pulls away, running below deck
and vigorously brushing her teeth
before weeping.
The razor of night struggles to sleep.
The sharp object thrown overboard.
No one wants to be first or last.

"We're out of words and moons and stars, there's no tenderness in us..." she said. "When did our love become the stab of ultimatum?"

I am dumb
with wonder, that I'm
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don't burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with ***** and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.

So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing's fantastic, *******, electric, and we *** together as he whispers me sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I'm destitute, but he doesn't care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear is shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write *******,
write.

Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.

How long does it last
When it's forever
Rolled into the past
Running a fever
True colors, broad cast
One day as ever

All together, done
When another eon lies
Folding into none
Lows and highs
Whispers of old stone
Buried in the skies

Past time paralized
In incessant news
Eternal life sized
Waves of letting loose
Surfaces incised
From current abuse

Whatever goes back
Whatever waters away
Slips into the cracks
Only a matter of day
Some days cut deep
Most are lost to sleep

From the outside in daylight my
large front porch windows are
nearly as reflective as mirrors.
Birds often mistake them for
open space fly zones.

Today I watched in horror as a
stalwart resolute Towhee fell for
the visual illusion, flying full tilt
into the window, impacting,
bouncing recoiling, reversing
and then trying it yet again!

The second impact bounced him
out onto the lawn, where he laid
stunned, feet pointing to the sky
for perhaps a minute.

I watched helplessly as eventually
he struggled to rise, then into the air
he drunkenly took wing, away from
the porch, turned and flew directly
back onto his delusion of freedoms
space. The sound of the impact
sickened me.

One minute alive the next he lay
dead on the stone porch. A victim
of his instinctive inherit perseverance
for freedom.

We humans; perhaps all living creatures
are not so different than this little bird,
our innate instincts can and often do lead
us down the wrong paths, even to bad
endings. I buried the little downed flyer
beneath my favorite Birch tree in the
garden. To ensure that our Barn Cats
did not add the indignity of being eaten
to the little flyer's untimely demise.

A child wandering
a forest wilted green
disenchanted
with a heart of abandonment
where leaves covered her ears
to protect
and time froze
and her screams, muted
and the grounds were cold and hard
and touch too painful
and what seemed as though
then, the way out
was nowhere....