It’s 4 AM and your skin is soft birch and your pillow indented.
You fume with stillness where your sleep is deep
And almost nothing is as pure as your inner
panorama of noise
Surging uncorked in millennia, as broad as Time’s banquet
Knocking the arrow of sweet slumber
To describe the arc of a falling star
into an open mind.

When you awake, she’s gone. At first you ponder, incredulous.
Then the Season descends it’s tendrils of departure
to ****** your precarious peace from its perch
like rolling thunder over a gasp.
your bed of fails, expansive in the dim pinch
of not enough morning.
just before the sun has mocked your reveries
into the nook of your crevasse
of miseries.

as her ghost kisses
your cheek.

when you stay, i assume that god has a plan
and she knows your name.
when you leave, i resume my urchin joy-
delirious with yearning on boil.
i applaud the next day
as you descend to me
unadorned
to disavow my lonely
with your passionate
Heresies to thwart the gospels
of my Doubt.

the way you always do
when you
sublime.

my hand on your hip like a golden fleece
humming jurisdiction and swaying
to the rhythm of your gate-
too proud to wallflower.
my palm-
where the heat of you
commands my grasp,
and nothing is
so keen
as the thought of our
next encounter
with a private
moment
unmoored from harbingers
of impending
isolation.
stuck to the forefront
of an absolute
ravishing.

whirling the dervish plums
of our plucky
resurrections
to stammer free of our bonds
into happier
*******.

thoroughly
in love
where out love
is In.

and no wonder.

our chariots are spineless waves, crashing at the nexus
of tumultuous calm. your light is like a breeze with lips.
I inhale your every atom to my heart’s content.
unabridged. as i span the valley of your wet sun
with all urgency undepleted, and my vigor preternatural
for a shy boy in heaven.

we sing to each other and thistles weep.

I resolve and devote. you spiral and charm
we depart from gravity
to plunge
before thinking.
unkempt hooligans, hurling valentines
at a perfect dark.

we dream of each other and reality bends.

to kiss your feet.

like a god.

when i need my glasses to find my glasses it’s hilarious
and i have you to laugh with me, with eyes doing cartwheels
holding my vulnerables in your risk-averse, soothing the calamity
of my ambitions with the verity of your love.
i yield the floor to your silent declaration that you will devour me-
come evening… and i serve at the pleasure of your chaste lust
devoted to our collisions, like a pigeon with a thing for windows
with you on the other side.

Hate is not Theater. But we Know our lines.
Baleful mongers squandering Grace at the behest
Of an Ungrateful Fiction, with Irony’s Teeth
And Doll’s Eyes glaring at the Puppet Master’s strings
To stitch an Excuse to an Impulse
With ancestor hands, chafed by grim and bloodstain
Like windows with dead eyes, locked on a sunset
To best glean the contours
of a Sunrise

At the scene of our every crime.

We know History will not Lie, but our Bibles might…
So we amend our Treaties to serve
The demon at hand. The one that we know.
Slouching quazi-cognizant
In all Splendor, War-Minded and About It.
The Way we lose Our Way
Never Trivial.

The Way We Lose Our Minds

Classic.

Love is the day your doom is on pause and all gods pray
with tiny hands that nothing harms your everything, and an answer-
swiftly bugaboos the blunder of your courtship
on a righteous sea
where bountiful waves of redemption and wet kisses
cling to the mist in her eyes
like blue snow

Your Humanity
an Unmangled candelabra of astonishing affection
drenched in slow hands that caress the very fabric
of your Universe
with an uproar as glorious as calm in a storm
where a squall should be.

As you ascend into the arms of an open Heart.
Where Two should Be.