you and me
we are far off on a foreign coast life
you in your black hoodie
me in my good girl clothes
entering our eternal summer
my cheeks blushing from wine
your hands locked on mine
dark nights, crashing waves
your eyes glows like champagnes
inviting me to dive

hot, salty july night
you and me in this greek tavern
moon is high but so are we
dancing, laughing, kissing like we are gypsies
you with your wine, me with my martini
we are drinking but we are drinking each other's sorrow
your orpheic mouth on mine, my limerence is on you
my Anam Cara
all the things you'd do to me in this greek tavern

like a siren you are calling me, seducing me
i'm dreaming of your crimson red lips
even the sight of it makes me a saint
i'm dreaming of the way you say my name
even the sound of it bewitches me
i'm dreaming of the way you touch me
even the thought of it gives me bedridden
like a siren you are calling me, seducing me
you are the reason i'm asking myself has anyone jumped off of a cliff and survived?

make me wish i could write
in the way i hardly understand
what my words mean at all

like those poets who manage to place
every word, every detail of it
in the most perfect cadence

speaking in a language of only those few
who feel or have been through the same thing could understand
with their deeper and wittier sense
at catching things in the right way

feelings successfully delivered across
like it's the first thing you'll read
in the envelope

and though i still lack the capability of doing so
i'd still stretch any words i have in me
to attempt creating something—
anything less than what the heart feels

you
make me try to utter things
that i’d rather leave unsaid
if it’s about
  anyone but

Fluid time, fluid stone, fluid light
all right, solid nothing,
nothing at all, a solid wall,

with a clustering of curious curio types,

messengers messaging between
whole and part, paid tuition
ars intuitus
rare anachronists insist, words evolve.

Words expand, as children into sage
or wastrel conformed and conditioned
expanding the idea of wedom,
breathing, statistically half in, as half out
breathe,
what manner of man am I, wombed or un?

Were there ever men such as we, who can
share context across history, at earth level.
----------------------

Considering the ant is no childish passtime,
Fulfilling aristocratic duty to learn then teach,
Considered here, linearly, on a thread

one thought wide, picked from circumstance,
to consider sidereally distant, sent from Mars,

between three and twenty minutes of time away,
on an arc affected by cohesive force, eh

grave-definite down, down, down
to the core of our communication organs,

signaling scents accepted as thought projected,
kindly lines, minds attuned as thought accepted.
--------------------

Consider ever, from your vastest sense,
of the gravity bubble we exist within,

you and I, my hearing, seeing, knowing
me and you, my guardian guiding will,

to which I choose to submit, under no threat.

General Common Sense, beauty recognition,

test to tell if the word lord means any true -ing,

Greek men, pure, indeed, wisdoming wedom

mob minds and freedom do not mix,
oil and water, sure as Hell.

Freedom from all forms of tyranny, what holds
our we shape, in our minds? Common sense,

under all the stories contained within this
Goldilocks zone of unintended circumstances,
working out, fine, just iusta think
fine…
is no real answer, it is a code, a social norm set
said, fine, I'll say it, as a code for so small
we'd need ants eyes to see it…

and, lo', we have those,
we have predictable macroscopic images,
graven deep into our idle time drifting state

watching art mock life, and learn life laughs.
--------------------

My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I'm the youngest of 3—the only girl.
I am my mother's pride and joy. She's often said if I were first I'd be the only.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I've had the most time with her but I am the youngest. I am 20. My siblings are twice my age.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I feel I'll never have enough time with her, so why have my brothers had enough thrice over?
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
My mother is my best friend but I don't show her how much she means to me.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
Of course, it's not my fault, but I'll never tell her enough how much I love her.

My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt. Not because she's dying, but because I've never told her how much I need her.

Peering down from a terrestial heap,
contemplating the debate at the seams,
exposing dim lights and the ones asleep.

I sat awake, in solitude, lost like a sheep.
Per(re?)ceiving all the secrets in ones dreams;
beneath the veil, and the ones that we keep.

What the bars in ones mind are made of are cheap:
confining and containing what one can gleam
from the empty gaps and the mental leaps.

I hope those objects and night-lights help you sleep;
Plato's shadowy projections move with moonbeams,
the brimful moon ebbing causes the shadows to creep.

The farside is bare, in twilight;
the mind becomes a maverick:
turning fireflies to winking sprights.

Can you regard all that I see
when you dream with eyes-closed?
And In your dream do people speak in poem or prose?

Are you transmitting dimensions of three
or are you given your dreams?

Do you wonder who contains those moments
and where they are received?

If heaven is dreaming nigh
I wonder what we would be

If God sent a message
what might be the presage;
And what might be the conveyance?

When you're dreaming Angels touch the ground,
revealing all that is bound.
~dancing with the beyond~
And (angels) evaporate in the dawn, or atleast seeming..

Let your eyes unlock~
Quick! The Gates are sealing
Run to recapture all that they've been stealing:
From all those who wish to lower your cieling.

---

A gypsy is whistling who's been up all night.
The dreams of many slip into hidden spaces:
Closets and under the bed; spirits dissipate.

As morning's light eminates
What do you see?