You and your wordless words - you
give them all to me when you
say you have none within you.
Your mind is a swirling pattern
of that non-existent voice, and
I am the comet, shooting through
your atmoshpere and becoming a
storm of fire, in delight as
words hit me. I don't know
if this will burn me up, but
all I know is that I love the
feeling of being on fire again.

You are the
         liquid sugar
I rub into
       my skin
soaked
through to my
pores so
deep within
on a cellular
level as I
gulp it down
swish in saliva
in liquid love
          sounds
washed through
my system
in textured
              spin    
you balance
out the thickness
of my insulin
           you
pique
          hot
energies
into blush-fused
                crush
swirling
endorphins
and hormones
in maelstrom rush
my cheeks
on fire,
ripe fruits
drip
          juice
I must
    breathe  
in staccato
to control
         this
  sluice  
But when I
get peak-high
and then
            *****
      so
           low
you harmonize
the taut,
        slick pull
of my
       undertow flow
It's just a matter
of a few
words, syll-a-
bles spoken
velvet-voiced
             cool
smooths
the rough      
of my
     broken
So please
        inject it,
fresh
into the river
of my blood
     Bring it over,
   hot sugar,
before  I
surge
   into
        flood

What are these bodies, these
limbs, giving up their sap
and heat? Who decides
who dies, who lives?

What is cut down is
cut down, and
bereft children
grow in their place.

Blistering hot the other day
Humid heavy air
I prayed to the heavens
For more pleasant weather
And I thank the Lord
For making it cooler
And more bearable
Praise the Lord
You answered my prayers

this awful summer heat
makes me feel like a piece of meat

thrown on an open fire
I surely will expire

You can hear my moans
as it burns me to my bones

I don't like this at all
I am so ready for the Fall

Partially cloudy, 85 degrees low, 90 high.
Sunny, 87 degrees low, 94 high.
Apocalyptic, 213 low, 224 high.

One night, while I waited for you
I sat in the midwest summer heat, hot and sticky
like juice from a sun-ripened peach-
a balcony in the city, a small temple amidst the headlights and occasional sweet, gasping breezes
the house was asleep, settling in its aged wooden bones
while I wrote you poetry on its back.

you never arrived, but I felt somehow better for it:
the warm and pulsing beauty of my silent night's watch.

Too mean for the Angels
Too nice for the Devils
Hovering in the land of inbetween
I can't help but see what is meant to be unseen
It's not a mistake
It's a miscalculation of human proportions
I don't want to fall into the desert late each night
I'd rather die by the heat than by the quiet.