There is funeral going on,
hush for the death.
quiet for the mourning,
the dead demand respect.
There is a death and I grieve you
so pity on me and silence, I beg.
let me tell you how I mourn you
I yearn back our laughs in synchronized pops of noise
one tinkling
on bellowing with breathe.
I am rage, full of bitter
that I must grieve your hand
as I know that hand so well!
That hand held mine and so
It must be that it were mine so
Naturally
I RAGE for the loss of my hand as well.
Quiet. Stillness
There is a procession
See? We were happy once
Perhaps it wasn't us that died. Perhaps is was contented's demise
and we are still an ember of life and I am at the wrong funeral
because we are still flickering a bit
...just a bit.
it's all you need to start a fire a spark of yellow will do.
I see red when I look and see your blue cornfield eyes
I see yellow in the fuzzy field of your hair.
Shh.. they are kneeling.
Shhh
Something has passed on but it's not us? Right? This is not final walk?
There is hope... I showed it to you! Hope, we've just taken a wrong turn
you and I
This is not our funeral
My hand doesn't grieve.
My lips do whisper respect.
Shhh. This is a funeral. Respect for the death.


sahn
11/2/14

I sat under a paper umbrella of the reddest hue autumn
and like an apple
I waited for you to pick me ripe
bite, smell my neck
and remember.
I sat on bench of grey weather boards
waiting to be thrown down upon them-
wanting to be pinned down upon them.
Feet on a rug of discarded
leaves, just like me.
discarded but beautiful.
still just a season long
season woman,
can you love me winter long?
Ill meet you on the snowy bench.
white puffs of apologises will float from my mouth.
my toes will shake and the fence we loved for being red
we'll love for being white.
Red will now slither to my ears and you will say things I can't hear.
And the stars will paint the sky too dark so we
can see that winter sparkles.
Spring is full of other lovers, this bench-
lovers that are not you and I.
And the playground is full of candy wrappers and mothers sneakers.
The trees are majestically green stretching and yawning and showing off.
The children bouncing, whining, crying,  finding.
Spring is full of lovers but not us
so she gives my heart to summer
and glass doesn't melt so the places where I like to feel your sweat
are the places where they like to touch my body.
summer makes us reckless and the bench, our bench is being held together by the squirrels claws and the sparrows talons... they wait for us to scatter.
hot you kiss my dampness, damper.
hot you kiss my pain and sorrow. boiling all the past good voyage.
our fence has lost some posts as,
the children love to climb and kick
it will hold on, still.
but it won't hold-out and won't hold-in which is what fences are meant to do.
at least they should... they should choose.
Autumn, yes it's autumn ours. We are autumn lovers
with leaves of the book skittering beneath the empty slide.
We are autumn, smell like the burning leaves of who we were.
Smelling like the fresh cut wood, ready to have her rings counted
Autumn lover, hold my hand and tell me you are afraid.
Autumn lover, holding color golden like a circle round.
Hurry, before she blows me past the red fence,
Hurry before our secrets get caught by the wind and dance around the playground.
Hurry Autumn lover,
Hurry to remember that you loved me, once.*

Shannon April Alice
11/2/14

lady, lady i love you,
this could be truth but mostly undoing.


Sahn 10/16/2014

He sits on the carousel wheel,
her lover neglectful-
looks over the night as the neon illuminates the shiny people.
He sits on the carousel wheel
and loves to get stuck at the top
so he may contemplate jumping,
so to contemplate swinging with madness
from one
cart
to
another
and then
safely
to the
cart that
holds her. Hero, him.
He looks over the crowd as they swish around him-
sway around him
moving by him as if they were dancing to a song in his head
but he is not dancing.
He's looking for her.
He pops several balloons with a fiery dart
walks away from the girl with the silken stockings held to her
thigh by violet bow...a violent blow to his lustful ways, he looks firmly down
to the dirt on his boots, kicks rocks, kicks air.
Stops at the man who swallows fire from a stick,
"answer me, answer me"-
the man spits ember lies.
He's looking for her in each clown
pulling their make up down with his finger
and it looks like they're crying
so he can't really know
if it is her he has found?
Oh neglectful lover.
He busies himself by winning a prize
for his beloved, his lost
A prize- his reward for believing in true love.
He busies himself, knocks down milk bottles-
and punches the punching bags
insults the slow and disgusted carnie hags,
He moves from gate to gate
and it feels more like Hades
inside
where he's lost her
so he's been lost.
When he's lost her he's scared
that she will not feel, lost but found.
And he will not feel found-
but destroyed.
Teacups to twirl around
the dance he will swirl her around to
the day that he marries her,
if he can find her,
nay- when he can find her...
he'll put her in the teacup ride and
never let the spinning stop.
He'll fill her life with lights and sounds
and cotton candy
and he'll marry her he will
right on the tiptop
of the ferris wheel
where he sits looking round.

sahn 10/19/14

I've counted them all,
five in total.
Five hundred perhaps five million more after that.
I've counted them to get them solid...
Solid for to eat them up. Line them up like peas on a spoon.
I've run from them.
Fast, and my feet burns underneath.
I've run to India.
I've run to Mars.
They key to outrunning is not to look
back.
There, I just did.

I've colored them with periwinkle and yellow moon-glow crayons.
So carefully in the lines, I stayed.
Bright cheerful hues
to banish out the dark.
(You can't color out the dark.)
Oh, I've faced them,
****** foolish.
Face them, they'll multiply.
like a drop of water expanding
into a bucket of water
into a creek of water
into a river of water
into a monsoon.
Face them and you give them life.
Now you'll know they're real.
Now you'll know
that it holds hands
with
what can be.
Slick and satisfied, devouring mirth.
On it's back I climb stealthy-
ride it like a crocodile,
it can't lick you way up there
satisfied smile...
Oh, lover lover,
You can't bite what you can't reach.




sahn 10.11.14

With-
my bites so small they are almost
kisses
lined up like the dead: hands tied, blindfold blinding.
With-
lips that miss a touch by the width of a breathe...
just by that much-
the amount of air it takes to gasp your name.
With-
moist that rushes out of me-
all parts of me
to grasp your parts of you.
Moist from my perspiring shimmying lips-
moist that forms in a valley between my *******
and meets the moist like dew on the hairs of your chest.
With-
tiny bites on your neck right in the soft spot
right below
and right behind
your ear,
mirror to the place I tuck back my hair
nervously
like I do
when I  am
With you.
**** your bottom lip like a
honey crisp in tiny bites-
and
savor all the juice that drip
drops
drips from your tongue.
With you, within.
With you
Within.

Sahn
10/10/14

I don't always see the ghost-
he chooses a wicker chair to sit-
seems to be the problem when past comes to dine.
I don't always see them-
the empty obscure references
as they drip like baby saliva from pale lips
places we've been,
things we've done.
The past sits across.
pinky out daintily
as past will do
when drinking champagne
and talking about the
good days.
I see him like James Dean leaning against the door frame.
I feel like Grace Kelly
Flipping blonde hair flips in dip and twirling curl,
licking pink lips as if they were full of icing on cupcakes.
Yes, I do not see him.
Here I go again flirting with the past.
I do not see the emptiness of the stare
as he looks across to me
I think foolishly it is star crossed love-
and grab his hand to slip wistfully through my own
and pull him grudgingly forward.
I zoom with him room through room,
looking for a place to hold him.
And the  present sits forlornly on my front porch.
dejectedly he sits.
And the presents gift-
of soon wilted flower
lay on his lap...
And the present stares through the window
as I waltz with a ghost.
I do not see, I can not see.
I do not see the ghost.

Sahn 10/03/14