I am afraid to write about you
The cushioned dark corner I have placed you in
Could suddenly become back lit with soft candle glow
Or blindingly bright mid-summer sun blaze
I became photosensitive to your light years ago
These emotional sunglasses, black out curtains for my vulnerability
Are all that stands between my willpower and the truth of it all
You are delicious. Dangerous.
Completely wrong and perfect for me all in one bad decision
Time passes, memories fade, so I turn back to take another sip
Tip toes become full submersion
Why does it have to be so easy to drown in you?
I use drowning as a way to describe the sensations you evoke
Not as some romantic metaphoric notion
You are Deepness.
The surface only a tease.
You are Suffocation.
Lungs struggling with their intent to breathe.
I know this but yet continue testing these waters
One day, perhaps soon
I will not resurface.
Stones sink heavy in the heart of a sinner
Taking my better judgement with me

The man with a crooked smile and big hands


A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door.
She had it in the things
I had clear from her room.
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

If it comes to pass
That these words are my last
Lay me down easy
Beside salty shores, warm and breezy
You'll find many thoughts left undone
Broken sentences, tales only half-spun
Hearts lay throughout, fluid and true
None so precious as the one shaped like you
I've protected and shielded those needing care
Handing gently to death love found so rare
Judge softly for I, like you, have sin
The line between morality grown porous and thin
To ashes and dust my mortal form go
Such is the rhythm of our ebb and flow

If you were a book
I would stay up all night
Feverishly flipping pages
Soaking up every single syllable
To know your ending

If you were a tropical island
I would explore your lush, secret interior
Spending long, lazy afternoons naked
Sun drunk on your shores

If you were a ***** joke
I would throw my cackles to the ceiling
Careful to not burst windows
Making sure to retell you often
Your punch line only gets better

If you were a roller coaster
I would wait in line for half the day
Just to be caressed by your safety harness soaked in other's sweat
Not to mention your talent with G-spots, I mean forces

If you were early morning
I would brew you strong and extra hot
Sipping cautiously at your porcelain edges
Watching blue smoke lazily curl
Then taking deep gulps as you cool
Buzzed on you til the afternoon

If you were mine
I would fill up your long dried and crusted ink wells
Encourage your laughter to come out to play
But above all
I would love you. Madly.

You've got this seven year itch
Gone through about 31 to find
The right fit for your glitch
Guitar strings for heart rings  
Hips grinding against your newest
Ink splatter


I see a face that has launched ships
Baritone stiff and moody
Like a cigar bar on a Sunday afternoon
They are all hiding from their wives
When they come to watch these shadows
Quiver

So what if I've got tentacles?
Pulling you all in
With a mouth made to ****
Embrace your sea legs
One swim in my silky depths
Will leave you thirsting
For more of my tide
I prefer boats roughly rocked
My caps foamy and white
Salt spray facials
Pearl necklaces
Venus, emerging
Tsunami wave of pheromones
Check your sonar love
I'm headed your way

I am black lace kissed with stardust
You are brilliant, faded, hand me down
Tie-dye
Leaving the smell of afternoon naps
Sleepy smiles
And camp fires in your wake
Turning on my Mother Nature
Let's get to dancin'round these flames
Licking the space between our skin
Heart beat rhythms driving hips
To sway against our strings
Connected.
Summer rain steaming mmm please
Feel your heat getting closer
A river runs through me
So in tune, I pulse for you
Aching with the distance
That seems to always separate
Our good timing

I need no one's validation
To know that what I feel
Is real.

Downtown's been calling
I just let it ring
Like virginity that conversation,
Once ended
Will not be taken back without painful
Drastic measures
You are not poison
You are forever
The perfect drug, made just for my wounds
You would destroy me
Jam my busiest crossroads
Old haunts blending into new aches
I'm not ready for your vacant houses
Windows cracked or hollow
That feeling, those shells
Lie within us all
You need a warrior
I am one,yes
Call to arms
I'll be on the front lines, ready

                           Pain.

In any form is welcome.
For pain is feeling but not too deeply
Not like the scars of sadness
I am shell shocked, disconnected
No longer whole
Shrapnel still embedded
Organs and tissue assimilate to it's form
Healing, yet still
Unable to lift a sword to defend
Are you ready for that?

(silence)
I know what you are thinking

"How will we know if we don't try?"

                           Big Picture Moment

When I'm ready...
                 I'll let you know.

Houston stood up from his stooped position on the sunken mattress edge. Shuffling over to his one lone window he grabbed a paint stained old t-shirt and used it to gingerly wipe the filth off of the closest pane. The light he allowed entrance made the sorry state of his quarters look all the more uninviting. Piles of soiled clothing, dozens of glass bottles, torn canvas shreds(he could never hold his temper long enough to sleep on it) and empty paint pots from one unkempt corner to the other.   No wonder he had not worked in months. How could an artist create in such a state? He sighed heavily to himself and pulled on faded blue jeans with a plaid button up. Clothed and comfortable he surveyed his "work" room, which consisted of his five foot wide, two foot deep closet with the doors removed. The easle sat sad and empty, waiting to fulfill it's sole purpose: to support the realized weight of this man's genius.  He was a painter. A **** good one too or so some folks said. He was still a skeptic. Houston mainly  painted to control his temper. It was his only outlet for a hair trigger rage that simmered just below his sweet and gentle demeanor. Those closest to him understood his struggle and did their best to not instigate but every once and a while they dealt with the business end of Houston Montgomery. Not a show anyone would want a repeat performance of.
       One of his so called "masterpieces" was sold to a gallery down town for twelve thousand dollars last year. Seven months had come and gone since then. . He would trade his most amazing memory to be able to rewind back to that day.  Around that time the fates must have decided Houston was having far too much fun. That very same month he also came across a down on her luck actress who went by Sylvia Stone. He had been doing pretty well for himself up until that point. Bills were paid, fridge was full and his clothes were clean.  Then everything went to ****. She was easily impressed with Houston's new money and thought jumping on this pony was better than settling for a jack ***. Houston spent more time with her than he had expected. More time than he really wanted but he had not been with a woman in many many months and she was incredible in the sack. She did this thing with her mouth that had his eyes even now rolling into his skull and his spine quivering. Too bad she turned out such a psychotic ****.
         His art started to suffer. Normally he could sit down and pump out two pieces a week. For four months straight he only produced three total and they were horrible, shamefully lack luster. He told Sylvia he needed space, that it wasn't because he did not want to be with her but that he needed more time to work. He would get a few pieces done then they could spend a week together.  She seemed understanding but distant. Houston went back to dedicating his time to his work. Hoping that after he made some money Sylvia would be open to picking up where they left off, Houston worked quickly to pump out something fantastic.  

Things were quiet and productive
for seventeen days.

**Then Sylvia called.