I love your black dress,
you know,
the short one
with the white polka-dots.
And when you lift it up,
I love it even more
as my jaw hits the floor,
to hear you giggling,
"More!"

Windows show the world…
Beyond this pane of glass sits my imagination,
well beyond the reflection that greets me
A smiling face perhaps, a somber frown at times,
this transparent image
like a soldier, guards my thoughts
and holds my dreams captive


I can see the chest rise and lower
as breaths escape the figure telling me
it lives, at least for this moment
Still the worry of loss fights through the ghost-like outline
invading my soul,
pulling and pushing on my heart,
leaving me exhausted as my mind sails to the silhouette ahead


Two ships, why do they always pass,
why is it always at night,
when faces are obscured and merely shadows
of a dancing moon
Ripples of friendship, waves of anguish wake,
not knowing the set course or the boundaries of love,
reaching for the anchor…much too late


Currents swiftly dispatch the emotions,
wash away the feelings in salt water swells
Sails are hoisted, memories are swabbed,
clean as a whistle,
melodic and sad for the song
sinks slowly into the mist
only to be swallowed by the sea


Still, here I sit, gazing at this clear protection
finding not sea worthy vessels, but street lights call
and morning suns rise
to eliminate my reflection
as fingers type in the realization
that beyond this glass sits nothing,
for once again I am alone

Oh pile of white shirts who is coming
to breathe in your shapes to carry your numbers
to appear
what hearts
are moving toward their garments here
their days
what troubles beating between arms

you look upward through
each other saying nothing has happened
and it has gone away and is sleeping
having told the same story
and we exist from within
eyes of the gods

you lie on your backs
and the wounds are not made
the blood has not heard
the boat has not turned to stone
and the dark wires to the bulb
are full of the voice of the unborn

fond of fire
like a bond; tightly knit
and brightly burned,
until war spreads its fingers
and its light
is the only thing in vision.

scarred red with heavy scowls,
like the moon and its ventures; the sun, and the places touched by its warmth.

home lay in chaos, with corners written in orange,
and walls done in blood.

tear the scape to it's heart,
and poison soil to a grave.

to god

god is
to some

some bread, some snow.

to a recovering aesthete
such as yourself

god
is an occupational
hazard.  to collectors

of inexperience

such as
the virgins
god, as subconscious

measure, created-

god is the vague
self-involvement
the mind
for body

devours.  to the parents

I brought upon
myself

god
is what
appears.