Deer leap clear across the field
Elegant and graceful,
Beautiful and limber.
The beauty of the open grass,
the feeling of freedom,
outweighs the threat of danger.

The hunter stalks his prey,
hidden by the the grasses.
The very grass that lures the deer to freedom,
also leads the deer to it's death.
The hunter is filled with power,
arrogance filling the hole virtues left.

He takes his aim.
He shoots.

The once limber deer is dead.

She represents this,
He represents that,
They represent it.

All tied together in one binding,
All connected under the same symbol.

Nobody knows the stories within,
Representing each figure with a flower or a stone.

The symbols outstretch wildly,
and nobody sees the connection.

No, not the relationship of words,
Those are as clear as day.

But, the representations we speak of,
the ones that travel through the actions of time.
Those are as dark as night.

If not me, it's her.
If not her, it's you.
If not you, it's them.

The web is infinite,
the links are endless.

•Known are the associations of few•
•Unknown are the ties between the non-corresponding•

"Will you marry me?”
     whispered her sly slivers of purple,
          prestige and occasional lie five years later.

And had we not been asunder
     that very same altar we’d sought fallen stars on
          several days prior, I’d have said, “no.”

Sure, she’d brought a bounty oranges,
     but could he, if ever, answer with the hand
          that’d waived like the incense before?

He said “yes.”

To hold a candle in one's palm
And let the wax drop into a soul that yearns for brightness;
To polish off a set of silverware
That is set in the back of the china cabinet;
To these actions does one owe the breadth of sincerity
Reached only by the mobile and task-less mind.
When I was a young child,
Cloud scanning was naught but a foolish game
That only the sloth did chance to play.
Yet white pirate ships and marshmallow fantasies
Would still laugh and dance just out of my stunted reach
Until my tangled shoelaces tripped my idleness into
An emerald green oblivion as my knees met ground.
Parallels exist when one matures;
It's just as easy to trip over a pair of high heels.
To what end, then, do we owe the dusting off
Of the old mahogany boxes of memories?
To which source do we credit the rolling film
That replays childlike nostalgia through a sepia tinted lens?
To the wonders of the mind and the memories within,
We owe our deigning to produce and beginning to dream.

Different as day and night,
summer and winter,
light and darkness
and yet so much in common.

Trees; uprooting arteries
From a garden growing
In destiny’s sterile womb,

I walk inside
The frame of crime—TIME
A desolate dusty-green capsule.  

And I walk outside
The frame of time—CRIME
A burning slate-red lake.

Arteries, rooted like trees
Form this heaving orb-corpse of mud,
Birthing fleshy despairs.

I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
*****, gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."

So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?

And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-***** and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,

The home we eventually abandoned.

You and I aren’t quite so different,
We really aren’t.

With every feeding came life,
And with every wrinkle,
Death,
Notarized our finite parchment,
Parallel and ultimately mortal.

We’ve shared –
An experience, any experience
And epiphanies congruent pain,
The numerous, the humorous.

We’ve remembered upon
Paths we’ve taken,
Together, apart, and in –
Eras defined by how we
Walked, talked,
Slouched,
Or slowed to a crawl,
Huddled and bled a back.

So come the heave,
The finality in flame,
Make a face for the name,
Let the dead man dream
And take that memory to the grave,
The One, that’s never forgotten
Whilst eternal and reciting –

“I love you,”
I loved every single
One
Of
You.

Severing fingernails, so to, chopped the
toe’s, ate some berries and snuck in a nip
or two. I assert myself, “this drink’s if only
to steal, or seal one last scream,” but,
“decadent’s,” quiet for once; A calm
christened, “collateral,” the parallel plight
and pale ear nigh, if only doors down.

Left to my own devices, I’d imagined
every bad, “thing,” and how they’d
happen; Exact and unlike random
aneurism. So I checked on the plants one
last time. I checked on the only flower,
once again, if only doors down, and one
last time. I abide impatient and remain to
question eternity; This twiddling of thumbs
and silent sliver of sun peeking upon one
and opposing, my alien, “East,” –

I long for my only, “West,” and if only
home, but its love, the other love that locks
my only gate.

And with that I’d lay awake and be, a
guarantee, malcontent, remnant come only
one reminder; A twitch under my right eye
and promised son but days later. So
continued my sequence, my defiance, my
only anything; Come one, “Oh!” and two,
yawped not for Walt, but for me,
“Onward!” awake and in an awkward
avoidance of complacent.

Ensued, were the acts of rebellion, the acts
of life, the acts of desperation in the face of
an already dead incarnation. One day to be
labeled, my suicide, at ends wrought
insurrection and beneath the twin flags,
insomnia added anticipation – Perhaps my
last, should the wolves cull come the hours
next when beds are made, supper’s sooner
cold and once more, the stars are allowed to
sing for someone, for something, else.

Your hair –
twilight strands of, “now'd,”
gotten longer and were so silently dreamt of last Tuesday.

Your fingers –
finally allowed, followed to weave my own,
and all that'd been prior washed away;

Dirt, gizzards and blasphemy, along with the boils from my father’s dead hands.

Your hips –
whispered 'morrow and all the jubilance expelled,
so that the same morrow's sun'd show eminence once again.

Your eyes –
said, “baby,” if only, “baby,” and, “baby, it'll be ok,”
it'll always be, “A-OK.”

So when your heart –
let me and finally to cry, appendage etched eyes,
eyes etched the night and sure, summer'd be at end,

but autumn could taste oh so much better.