The tides give me structure.
The waves delight and frighten.

The water both cools me and gives me warmth.
The sand between my toes is childhood.

Its qualities and inhabitants preserve my life and humanity.
Swimming at dawn exercises my  body and mind.

I will lovingly walk into the deep when it’s time.
The ocean will be my eternal pillow.

The coordinates seemed invincible. They would forever remain constant and steadfast.
Everything worked in its favor to keep me cocooned for life, the raft on a calm sea of peace.
Tragedy was for everyone else, I could count on that. Always grateful it didn’t affect me.
Surely I was the chosen one, sympathetic but without empathy. I would always survive.

In a flash of an energetic eye, I was split apart. My soul crushed, my heart no where to be seen.
The explosion fueled my impotent rage at the gods whose impudence was in colorful display.
Trying to knit the pieces of me back together became an inscrutable puzzle impossible to solve.

Was this a lesson in humility or a neutral reaction without judgment that fractured my being?
It matters. Matter matters.  What once was will never again exist in the same form or appearance.
The pieces will fuse, melt by heat, and rearrange themselves. I look forward to that new person.

I would like to live.

In my dream. Ivy, stone, and spit. A rock garden at the end of a mile-long entry. A pond for the birds and wildlife.
Solace in the wood structure that meets the eye head-on, never making any excuses for its existence. It lives.
A kitchen that is sturdy and smells like everything good under the sun. An extended trestle table for the family.
Lights and shadows in the library, a roaring fire in the living room, bedrooms infused with comfort and sanity.

In my dream. Wonderful people and pets that behave. No gloom or dust would invade, nor bad spirits or demons.
Mirrors in every room in the house, all calibrated to reflect the best of me, the image that’s in my head and heart.
And the music, oh my the chords of peace and tranquility with a sly note of the devil for good measure as always.
Fragrance of herbal flowers and old cedar chests waft through every corner of as if the old and the new are here.

In my dream. The end never comes. It’s one day after another of the joy unattainable on the rocky sphere I left behind.

Words come tumbling out of them. I sit surrounded by empty satin-wrapped wordy boxes purged of their contents.
I have my whole language hemming me in with too many choices. I want my words to matter, to rage, to howl.

I want to entrance and ****** with my words. I want to expand my horizon and that of my patient readers.
It should be musical with complementary chords. It should be a comfort or a kick in the *** or a tragedy unfolding.

Random words? I wonder whether there is such a thing,  given our inclination to make meaning out of nothing.
Throw  the words out in a circle. Feel their touch. Taste each morsel. Try it on for size in front of a full-length mirror.

Some are like velvet cocoons; others, like razor blade weapons.  Some can stand alone, while others are dependent.
All I can do rearrange the puzzle until my words take on a life of their own, until they are no longer mine.

Leaning in, trying to figure out the puzzle. Its arms and legs flailing, squinched little eyes, and a yearning mouth.
What does it want from me? Have I done something irretrievably wrong? What’s the next step in this journey?
For years after,  I have embraced fear, self-recrimination, and hidden love for this otherworldly creation.

Then it’s over. A fully formed human being sits across from me laughing about something in the news.
The interval of years has softened the rough spots. I can let go, I tell myself. She lives her own life.
The horrors that I thought I had inflicted still haunt me on those sleepless nights, awakening in a panic.

In the morning now, I remember the message that she send me on a card in flowery ink: “I grew up loved.”
A Mother’s Day cliché that is my lifesaver and redemption. Lightness, forgetting, forgiving, oblivion.
Or maybe it was just all a dream to begin with. Our connections are fluid. Time playing its old tricks on me.

Light is too easily eclipsed by darkness, its power denigrated and belittled.
The mind is limited to black and white, with gray the matter that’s evident.

My cup is half full of regrets and third chances, success lingering in the shadow.
The other half presses on with optimistic revelations and a nod to the sun’s glow,

A glow that has more meaning as I get closer to my own horizon. I can feel its warmth holding my swaddled body, reassuring me that the past is irretrievable,

And the future is preordained at the end. The sun will be with me then and forever.

I remember the ivy-laden trellis that tried to impede our childhood climb up the house.
The two of us, boy and and girl dressed for kindergarten, finally made it to the top.
How frightening then it was to leave that trembling ladder and get onto the roof.

Afraid to look down, I focused on the view, wanting to reach out and touch the soft hills.
As I turned to my childhood friend, he was gone. I looked down in a panic and saw nothing.
I walked clumsily to the center and felt the wood soften and buckle beneath my feet.

I woke up in a carnival scene of odd characters and screaming music, my friend nowhere to be seen.
Crying in fear, I could barely make out the walls. Someone whispered in my ear. I wanted my friend.
I searched other rooms but found no sight of him. The music was hurting my head and I felt cold.

A wisp of a woman waved for me to come to her. She bent down, kissed my forehead, and said “Free.”
I woke up back with my friend on the roof. He was doing a little dance, as if nothing had happened.
My mother was yelling for me. She had to climb up to bring us both down to earth. I was scolded.

Looking back now I remember the feel of the ivy, the kaleidoscope of colors, a dreamlike wave,
a dress rehearsal for life, a nebulous event threaded out of childhood experience, a lifelong warning.
Her kiss so threateningly soft and persuasive. Her “Free” so musical yet so fleeting. Child’s play.

Legs akimbo and fire in their eyes. The beautiful boys of summer.
Their perfect brown backs and hands waving everywhere at once.
Energy for a lifetime used all at once. Flying net-less through the air.

The boys of summer see gold and silver linings in the paddle of a canoe.
Walls are to be conquered, no signs of trespassing for these boys of summer.
They have a secret language that will last them until they hit their inexorable winter.

The winged boys of summer know nothing about fear or death, bless them always.

One note repeated. You hear the same note but not the same note. Time takes its toll.
Your mind seeks diversity and finds it everywhere. What sounded tinny can suddenly sound like lightning.

But it is chords that echo our regrets, our failures,  our moments of joy. Chords spell out love and loss and death.
The music cries for us when we can no longer muster the strength and consoles us at night when we fear the dark.

The old land, rich with loam and memories, full nights under the moon.
The shading trees bending to the will of the day in fulfillment of the deal.
The calf figuring out the direction dictated by years of habit and will.
Was this paradise or some ethereal landscape of humorous beauty?

The new land is a marvel of ingenuity borne of boredom and greed.
Ease of delivery in so many unanticipated ways that confuse the spirit.
Time. Time. Time. To devise more ways to have more time, time, time.
Time to gut the land, trees, and animals. We have so much time now.

We have so little time now. We play the fiddle and obfuscate. The
Monstrous new land is our new history: the future foretold by the
Look in the hungry wolf’s eyes, the decimated forest, and the rising sea.

The joke of infinity, the curse of fatalism, the big yawn signaling no matter.
Another use for those blinders. Starvation, pestilence, brutality only rumored.
A cosmic joke from the Comedian. A reversal of fortune that was written on
The old land, the trees, and the calf in a language unknown and ignored.

I’m not comfortable in my skin. It’s either too loose or too tight,
Depending upon the daily elements. I want one that fits me like a glove.

Would that there were a place to get a custom skin replacement.
I would want one like armor but striated with gilding for decoration.

I would insist on a warning system. A bell or flash or protruding daggers.
I want my replacement skin to protect me from all outside forces.

No connivers, no joy takers, no evil eyes, no snake smilers, no horse thieves,
No acrid pontificators, no mouth breathers, no pulpit screamers, no handsy Uncle Bobs

My new skin would be removable for those rare occasions when I want the world
To enter me, to delight me, to show me the way, to love me, and to keep me.

The wind brought with it the memoir, wrapped up all nice and fancy with tiny love-me-nots in bloom.
A very tenuous grasp on reality from the person whose reality is based on fantasy. Can we trust her?

Several chapters to the story, beginning with an innocence-tinged laugh that belied even the child herself.
Bouts of alcohol rage and running with scissors stuff. Parents limiting their exposure to her from Day 1.

Hysteria? Hyperbole? The problem with a memoir is that we never know the ending, real or not. It just drifts off.
No conclusion, no final assessment, no lasting revelation or hope or despair.  Death takes care of  the epilogue.

We laughed, we danced, we ate and drank until dawn, then blinded by the fiery sunrise.
We slept little and ordered a car to drive us to the opening of something or other.
The notice was on our phone, our selfies from last night still making us silly again.
And the band plays on.

The trade winds are ominous, the plutocrats reign supreme, the riches trump the rags.
Bully pulpits abound with demagogic appeals to the ancient terrors of the other.
Countries dissolving, oceans rising, fires unabated, and glaciers disappearing.
And the band plays on.

My friends, we have only this moment in time. Why waste it on anything we can’t fix?
Life was made to savor and enjoy, not to worry and fret about anything beyond ourselves.
We can’t change other people; we can’t fight the battles of good and evil; we must just breathe.
And the band plays on.

The mobs are at the wall, bellicose signs at the ready. The defenders of freedom look the other way.
The intellectual, the artist, the different among us are trampled into conformity. No one is spared.
The lights dim, the bullhorns blare, the flames erupt, the crystal night begins yet again.
And the band plays on.

They come outfitted for the hunt of long ago, dressed in colonialism par excellence.
They love the people that serve them so obsequiously, not a wrinkle in the process.
The abject poverty seen from a Jeep elicits empathy tinged with a blessing for themselves.

They are privileged to the native shows of dance and culture performed for shillings.
What’s hidden behind those smiling eyes that seem unable to look at us directly?
Their dependence upon us creases their faces and keeps them singing and dancing.

I look away and revel in the majesty of the wild creatures in their native habitat.
Here I feel on the same level, no confusion of what to do or say. Silence reigns.
Time to go home. How was your trip, they’ll ask. I have no easy answer for them.

Love is that heartbeat that quickens to a roar and then slows to a comfortable, affordable compromise.
Hate is burning white and pure with vengeful conceit and the will to smash something to smithereens.

Religion is the need to belong, the desire to ignore mortality, the comfort in community and its restrictions.
Atheism is that cold sweat in the night, the reclusive hideout, the dark vision of humanity cruising toward its end.

Noise is what we crave as proof of our existence. Music, chatter, drilling, birds,  the couple screaming next door.
Silence has no echo. It makes us feel small. We turn inward and feed on ourselves. A remedy or a curse.

Freedom is a welcome mirage, a nod to our participation in an already stacked deck of cards. But we persist.
Suppression from within or without is the human condition writ large. Players on the stage, if I may be so bold.

Life comes cheap, handed to us without our permission. Moving from one goalpost to the next, suffering and exalted.
Death is a conception beyond our perception. It is an unsparing one-way trip without a backward glance or a goodbye.

Good and bad. Black and white. Who’s to say? It’s a poet’s decision.
Take the trip, pratfalls and all. Passion is the driver for all ordained passengers.

Both doors are black with metal trim. They are roughly the same dimensions. Easily mistaken.
I keep trying to discern any difference. I must choose. My life depends upon it.
Notice that the left one is ever so slightly crooked.  Should it be perfectly aligned?
The door on the right seems to emanate an unworldly glow that must be considered.

Lightning, thunder, the explosions all over the city, the people running for their lives.
Armed militias surrounding parts of the city, capturing those who don’t belong.
Air raids, screaming bullhorns, no power, no food or water, no first aid, no escape.
The taste of  fear, the smell of defeat, the touch of the inevitable, the view of the end.

The second-hand has almost achieved its final resting place. It’s now or never. I reach out.
Imperfection? A light that might deceive? Where will I end up once I go through the door?
I open the door on the right, as I am mesmerized by its powerful attraction and bidding.
It is coal-dark and very cool in this long corridor that I now walk through to the end.

An arched doorway welcomes me at the end of my trip through the door that I chose.
I step through to an expanse of sand and ocean, feeling a tingling wind on my face.
Up ahead I see only empty makeshift tents touching one another. I hear not a sound.
No creatures of any kind. No humans inside the tents. No weapons, no life. The End.


Inspired by Mohsin Hamid’s “Exit West”

The color of the sky when it can’t make up its mind.
The first line of a book that you CAN put down -- forever.
The dinner party whose guests speak in monologues.

The dress I wore to visit my elderly Aunt Gertrude.
My honeymoon spent on a vinyl-covered sofa.
The flavorless food in any hospital cafeteria.

The water that’s unfit for human consumption.
The air that’s unfit for humans to breathe.
The spent bullets used to attack the enemy.

The words used to muddle the thoughts.
Speeches full of hackneyed slogans for the dimwitted.
The promises never meant to be fulfilled.

The houses in Anywhere USA for those with a dream.
The neighborhood strip malls that promise ongoing mediocrity.
The behemoth plazas contrived to mimic a community.

The mind-numbing escapism that substitutes for culture.
The hours that pass while you’re looking at the clock.
The tedious welcome to each new year as if it were prescient.

The heavy drudgery of lifting and shaping the moments into something else.
The wearisome chore of trying to be enchanted and optimistic for a second or two.
The long and futile wait for the denouement that never comes.

She was close to a foot tall, with the most improbable threads of platinum hair.
Her fringed, wide-opened eyes never wavered in their total lack of guile.

Arms and legs were hardly articulate but were thin and milky white like an angel.
Her pouted lips sported a neon candy pink and remained politely silent at all times.

Bonnie’s measurements were a template for this young girl – cinched waist, tiny hips,
And ******* that memorialized the unattainable in their forever upright position.

She was gracious at all times, never acting up or stirring the ***. She was not curious
And never shrill or demanding. My Bonnie was acquiescent and always the lady.

Late in life I have thought often about Bonnie. I don’t know where she is now.
I do know is that she will remain a much loved warning signal from my brief childhood.

The poet bleeds ruby red words to match the injury. Follow the stains to find out whodonit, cathartic agony before redemption, loose ties abound.

The poet’s words a kaleidospoke of spiritual colors come to life. One strand of hair can mean life or death in the poet’s world. Always bated breath for clues.

The poet’s heart and soul cannot be bought and sold. Above the fray, giving hints of the immortal. Never didactically explaining. That’s below his pay grade.

Look to car bumpers for slogans and clichés; poetry is a unique view of the quotidian and the extraordinary together in curvilinear form. No straight lines.

The drama of internal dialogue is an art form for those willing to let the words in. Chew on them a while, and let the digestive process be everlasting.

Dance on your toes, swirling every which way, until you no longer have direction.
Sing a refrain from a long ago song that always made you want to move to its rhythm.

Wiggle your feet into the wet sand until you can see only their bare outline.
Do a pirouette in front of a full-length mirror and then do it again until exhausted.

Smile until it hurts, laugh until you cry, wonder at the hummingbird’s tiny vibrations.
Tiptoe through your next adventure and keep it as a rare and precious jewel.

No one is watching you. No one truly cares. They are dancing to their own music.
Make your last breath of life be one of lightness and joys, fearless to the end.

My racing heart trying to keep up with the times. Information pouring out of everyone’s pores at lightning speed until we dance.
A stiff sniff or blatant misinformation is in the wind. My brother’s ex-wife’s sister-in-law posted that Manson is alive and well.

The son rises in the west and sets in the east, children are worried about their parents, and the truth is one big hoax of lies.
These are the days, my friend, we hope they’ll quickly end. But the traction is there, and the planets are colluding against us.

THE CHILD
There is that head-slamming moment of clear sight. Something akin to a sucker punch.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The girl first slides out to a pink blanket and bow.
Isn’t she a little doll? Daddy’s princess will make her mark in the world with all that beauty.
Please dance for our guests, darling. And bake us a cake in mommy’s little helper oven.

THE ADOLESCENT
The frills and curls and princess talk take their toll, cuddle the girl into steps of submission.
Twirling for dimes and validation, letting the boys take a peep for love, fluffy mascara and
Glossy lips for insurance. The M.O. of pleasing becoming implanted as smarts go on hiatus.
Friends grow clique-est daggers, and gossip about the nasty abounds. Will she or won’t she?

THE ADULT
Of course she will and she did. Disappointed that the earth still turns, but who is she to judge?
Through the small measures and sense of her, we see that she begins to ask questions of herself.
She is not an afterthought of a rib. She wants to write to the world. Her silence has been corrupted.
And the metamorphosis begins. She loves, she procreates, and she sheds the princess skin of the child.

Maybe not head-slamming or sucker punched after all. She just grew up into herself.

Once I established my territory, I was able to take care of business. No one would be allowed to stop me or shame me.
The boundaries were set in stone with the help of those curious creatures who now had to strain to remember the before.
I have given them this duty in order to make them understand that this is my world now. They are but players in my mind.

Think of me as the chess master, always in control of the board. I don’t overload these agents with facts but with spurious thoughts.
Embroil them them in fear and anger so they will look to me for their salvation. Facts are beautifully malleable, aren’t they?
Am I evil? Will my day of reckoning come? Is karma real? Ah, but I have a great and wonderful back-up plan. Just you wait and see.

Looking back I saw my future, the ever-enclosing walls.
The expansive was never there, it was written but misspelled.
The high chair remained, no room at the big table.
Words set in stone.

The flying demon of my childhood stayed close ever after.
Refuge in the written word, the blood of it, the sheer guts.
The hidden but visible truths found and received.
But so what?

Let me in. That’ll work. A narcotic for inclusion.
Hide in the many as if accepted.
Cover the brain and show the hips. That’ll work.
Seek comfort always in the fetal set-up. No harm, no foul.

A quick one-two punch and remonstrative wailing.
How did she know about me? Those eyes penetrating my soul.
I have nothing to give having nothing that stuck but the charade.
But oh, what precocious tenacity.

Testing the limits on a case-by-case allowance.
Risking all by squeaking through until it passed.
Buoyed by time and age into a comfort zone.
The walls always present, mocking me.

Bounce, run, walk hard keeps a person free of thought
And the devil at bay until night descends and all hell lets loose.
The pattern ghastly beautiful in form expected and received.

The constant quiver of the compulsive hummingbird, colors majestic. They are hard to pin down, much too smart for that.

Now, the crow, he is a rebel who lives by his own rules and reports to no one but himself. He is a proud braggart with a big heart.

And here is Ms Seagull, an elegant vandal who has to be with her watery pals searching for the next salty meal and the spray of ocean mist.

Ah, but the pelican – proof positive of a creator’s sense of humor. To look at its group flight is to be exalted, to feel that anything is possible.

Giving short shrift here, of course, to the whole flock of fliers that should never be dismissed. To fly is the dream of dreamers. Protect them all.

They protect you from the will of tough grounding and show the world your sense of humor or lack therof. Stilettos cry rough ***.
Cowboy boots evince faux grit. Mary Janes whisper prim but shout schoolgirl fantasies to those in the know. Boat shoes are usually bone-dry.

Bling-y athletic shoes are the McMansions of the predatory clan. Loafers have given up the game just for the proverbial shiny penny.
Sandals and flip flips are proof that less is more unless you add the dreaded socks, in which case please remain indoors for the day.

No matter the shoe,  if I walk in yours and you walk in mine, we might become pals. Multiply that by 7.8 billion. Shoes matter.

The morning sun seems awkwardly shaded, the air densely packed with forged iron.
Where are the blooms that looked upward just yesterday? Who are these faceless people?
There are no warnings; there were warnings. The screen is fuzzy with static, silently loud.

Did we give our permission? I can’t remember before. Was I complicit? Did the trigger get stuck?
Can you grab the future and still it? It is too late, said the wolf with barred teeth. It is too late.
I just want to close my eyes to what I can’t imagine. The bloodstained proof of a dying union.

It will be noted by dead historians that one day we tacitly gave up what was so dear to us.
We can only mindlessly aggrieve while masking the horror with the quotidian that soothes.
This grand experiment was but a dream. The nightmare is forever. Let’s slumber together.

Getting to the heart of the matter once and for all. Holding a mirror to my world and wanting to make it go away.
It would all be so simple without people. Just lush greenery, waving water, sturdy trees, and animals without fear.

People – can’t live with them anymore. Where are the ones in my dreams? The ones that I fabricated with hearts and souls?
Those who can imagine a world outside of themselves and who can walk in others’ shoes whether they fit or not?

My escape route was preordained. I packed my essentials and was determined to find my spot,  filled with books and wine.
I dug out of this world and forward to peace and quiet. And more peace and quiet. Silence, not even a breath or a sigh.

No one to whom I could read my favorite passage. No one to ****** glasses with a big “cheers.” I have dug my own grave.

Let me sing Amazing Grace as it’s never been sung before.
Let me rest upon the top of the mountain and touch the sun.
Let me dance as if there’s no tomorrow until the bell tolls.

Let me feel the delicious fur of my nonjudgmental pup one last time.
Let me eat as many perfect peaches as I can, hand to mouth and repeat.
Let me hear Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E until it is in my heart forever.

Let me learn to express my love without even a twinge of self-recrimination.
Let me breath from deep in my soul the pure and newborn air of freedom.
Let me….let me… one last hour, one last minute, one last second.

Can you feel this moment? Can you hear it or taste it? When did it start?
Try to grasp it before it slips into the next one and the one after that.
You’ll find it an impossible task that makes you sad each time and ready to give up.

Take a deep breath for a moment. That moment has already disappeared. Count them all up
And you’ll see your life fragmented from beginning to end. Random jigsaw pieces.
What is the purpose of this exercise other than to frustrate you who wants to hold on?

The epiphany that they are all connected. You haven’t lost one moment of your life.
The baby that was born is the child that chattered away is the adult who still needs you.
No more yearning for what was or what could have been. It’s all right now, and it’s all right now.

It was hard to get in because the wait list of applicants was so lengthy. I snagged a morning visit.
I woke early and hadn’t slept at all. I chose my best dress to befit the occasion. It had no frills.
I kept checking the directions even though it was a straight line from here to there – no detours.
I ate everything I wanted and double-checked the house to make sure everything was in order.

The trip began as do all trips – with excitement and anxiety. There was so much to see and review.
Being alone on this excursion, I had only my own thoughts to keep me company. I couldn’t see much
But did feel the heaviness of the air and the sky’s imprint. A kaleidoscope of colors flashed before my eyes.
Now I’ve entered a tunnel with only muffled sounds circling me. My watch has stopped at 10:32.

I’m beginning to wonder about my appointment. How will I know whether I’m on time?
Craning my neck, I try to see some destination point up ahead. Could I have missed my stop?
Looking down I see that what was a tunnel is no more than a gaping coffin-sized hole in the earth.
I’m so glad that I didn’t miss my appointment. It’s a once-in-a lifetime opportunity after all.

She counts them out for good measure. Only three today.
Pay no attention to the body that has no soul.
She is its ruler and ultimate destroyer. No one else.
She holds its sheer weight in her soft, repellent hands.

This morning she will measure the glass carefully.
She will be that unicorn. Barely a breath.
She is safe in the cocoon and protected like a loved child.
Slowly she turns, step by step, inch by inch.

Discipline, groaning and devouring her. So much to win.
She will win. No one can feed her soul, let alone her body.
The mirror is a sneaky mirage that defies what she knows.
She will win. She will disappear. And they’ll be sorry.

The radical son was losing its blinding glare, softening into mellow gold. Couples watched the beauty unfold, basking in what was left of the warm glow.

Skateboarders were flying from one end to another without a nod to gravity. Babies in strollers felt the weight of what was to come as only they can.

A few cars took the trip to the other side without contemplation, just needing to get through the commute and  home to brace for the night yet again.

In the scope of things, I was but a minor player. Silently I watched my fellow humans, looking for signs of awareness on their covering skin and in their glassy eyes.

Stick figures working out their moves as they go, enchanting in their innocence and naivety. Each moment belongs to them, never to be eclipsed or redacted.

Who am I, you might ask, this spectator on the bridge. A lost soul at the rail who contemplates a final step.  But I keep watching, watching my fellow humans.

Letting go of the reins when the trees are sagging under the weight of irony and past iniquities may be cathartic.
Removing those blinders amid the collapse will sear the brain and remove any lingering doubt about the future.

For the shifts in mood and temperature, check the dogs. They are the barometer we can’t seem to reconcile.
Sometimes it is the cumulative that does us in. Like a cat with ball of wool. Once it’s unraveled, that’s the end.

I wish for a clear path from Point A to Point Z. If I stomp on my dreams, if I hit play, if I forget to love, if, if, if.
The God of Variables defies me. Our Lady of Misty Confusion works against me. The cat licks herself and laughs.

A Darwinian set-up enforced from the top. Who’s on first? The WINNERS as determined by their fellows.
You need sharp nails and a malevolent spirit each step of the way. No sway toward the blossoming lilies. Pulling up your own bootstraps is the American way. It’s a beautiful fairy tale that keeps the WINNERS smugly fat.

And the bottom-dwellers sink further and further away from all the bases. Hell, they aren’t even allowed in the stadium.
Unless of course it’s to answer the the blood call from those whose future depends upon their no-nothing fealty.
You say want a revolution. Well, you know. It always end up the same. It’s a musical pantomime for the WINNERS.

It’s skin blushes like a shy girl and feels like warm sunshine.
I don’t eat the skin; maybe I should if only to understand.
The flesh yields to light pressure and promises an afterlife.
The juice of ecstasy unfolds into a cold hardness at the core.

Take what you will from the experience of the perfect peach.
Do you see intent? A magnificent oddity? A roll of the dice?
What clashes of meteors, what turbulent gods handed us this
double sword? Enjoy it all, this only moment. That’s all we can do.

It was a dream-like state. A state I have come to prefer over the one that purports to be real. Just shut my eyes.
The tide had its way with me. The rhythm akin to love, the making of. A roll of the dice with a saturated sound.

The seaweed embraced me as if I were her long lost love. Her smell brought unknown memories from the deep.
I culled the entanglement of human’s leftovers from her being so that she could taste freedom and breathe again.

When I heard the cacophony of the maddening world, I had to make a choice. I chose my lover. Forever entwined.

Maybe it’s a zone problem. Or maybe there are just too many **** intersections. Could be the quality of the roofs, not to speak of disease, crime, and tainted everything.

The cave beckons as a cocoon for those in peril or who need the numbing blanket of forgetting. The bear is smart that way. The less exposure to the elements is their element.

Cushioning the body and wrapping the brain until it’s all over but the shouting. Murmurs have it that pain is just a reaction to the vipers who lead us astray into the desert.

I could do with a little music, a good book, maybe some See’s candies. Make me an offering, and I will consider it. I’ll open the door and latch it from within. Do Not Disturb.

She picked up the trash on the side of the road. It was the least she could do to help.  Most were food cartons and cigarette butts.
But upon closer examination, she found a ring. It was a rose-gold band. She held it up to the light and saw a twinkly design of roses.

So delicate and nostalgic. And then she was able to make out an inscription on the inside of the band -- “I will love you forever.”
She slipped the ring into her pocket and took it home. Out of curiosity, she tried it on. It felt as if it had been custom-made for
her.

She held her ring finger up and basked in the feeling of warmth and love, twirling her finger to see it sparkle and glow in the light.
After living a solitary life of heartache and misery, she is now loved and desired. Her face radiates heat. Her transmutation has begun.

One tiny molecule, one turn of the head, one fly in the ointment, one twist in the road and all hell breaks loose.
You’re on your way to having one kind of life when the tattered rug slips out from under you and disintegrates.
A good call to the authorities is in order but will go unanswered. Your representative is out for an extended lunch.

Shedding skin and inching along to some new and limitless endings, they were born with lucky shields not of their own.
The poor schmuck in his work clothes, the woman who never experienced being loved, the neglected child? They spin.
No skin in the game and inching backward,  and so it goes. The endings are limited by the powers that be and be.

                                   Forever and ever Amen.

Any way that you look at it, it’s a deciding factor, benign or malignant. Could be the wind.
It stands there beckoning me with a wink and a nod. I take my first baby steps as prescribed.
The background music of my childhood lends a sinister tone as I gradually ascend untethered.

It’s now an obstacle course. No hint of what is to come. No direction, too much to lose.
I’m not alone now. I have a partner on this journey upwards. He remains a stranger to me.
The zigzags are dizzyingly connected. The creation of a new life, far off course for years.

Oh, but those were the days best enjoyed in the rosy rear mirror. Those indelible moments to savor.
The fever of adult childhood, the pull and tug of senses and desire. Passion saddled with angst.
A slowing approaching a slight deviation of the trees, sensed more that seen. A drop in temperature.

I find myself looking down more now, some would say backwards. My feet are moving with resistance.
A faint sound surrounds me, and the air becomes heavy. I am so close now that I can feel the gravity.
The journey is over. I have reached the apex. No more choices. I cannot retrace my steps. It’s up.

The answer was always there. It was writ large to prevent any confusion. Could be my eyes see only what my heart wants.
No one escapes it. No one wins the non-existing lottery. There are no exclusions in the contract. Death will find us sooner or later.

From the beginning I have never been able to grasp the indelible future, rather define my live on my own terms. Then I got old.
That youthful vision I had has gradually contracted. How did I miss that? What day was it when I started counting backwards?

If there’s an artful, graceful dance toward this new reality, I don’t know the steps. I’m out of tune and and just spinning my wheels.
Now I understand the aged rantings about those **** youngsters on the lawn. Nothing will ever be as grand as my generation.

Yes, the rose-colored glasses help ease the way forward and make the inevitable more palatable.
                        How in the world did I miss that?

The slate of my life is tarnished with rust and indifference impervious to the strongest of solvents.

Waking dreams and sleep recollections scatter across the line of sanity so carefully constructed.

Looking up, looking down, the sky and land shake hands ironically in a show produced only for one.

There is no more here, not even a here to speak of. It is cloistered deep in the earth’s bank of treasures, along with peace and comfort.

Considering the inevitable, I’ll sit this one out, positioning
myself under the oak’s lush canopy with my regret-tinged heart.

Awaiting the next journey full of dust and embers.

It stands lamentably regal on the dusty old armoire in the bedroom.
The woman seems to be dancing to something, skirts twirling around her.
It’s her eyes that caught mine, as if beseeching me to do her bidding.

Around her neck is a chain of twigs that seem to be branding her skin.
Her skirt is tied tightly. Her freedom is a dance, a foot out in front of her
And one arm outstretched. She is eternally ****** yet blessed.

At night I imagine her designing her escape; morning, her resignation.
How easy it should be to undo her ties and remove her chains. I think
Maybe someday, somewhere, she will be free. Whatever that means.

The young woman had skin as smooth as marble, hair thick and shiny, and a seductive plumpness reminiscent of a peach at its peak of ripeness.

She didn’t realize the power of her attraction, just accepted it as she did everything else in her life. Her world was full of friends and admirers.

It was her day in the sun, but she didn’t know it. Moving gracefully through life as if it were static. Never giving a nod to the slippery *****.

The mirror now echoes time’s passing, but she doesn’t see it. Squinting one eye, she sees a remarkably young person looking hopefully back at her.

Thinning hair, weathered skin, the increasing skeleton characteristics are no match for her nostalgic vision. She remains in the prime of her life.

And who are we to deny her the fantasy of immortality? Forever young and carefree in her world of dreams? May her day in the sun last an eternity.

A simple request really. No fanfare. No ringing of the bells.
Just wing me back to the beginning. Not me, no, not me.
A new and shiny bright version. A smiling, loving time.
I would see beyond the blindness, feel the warm breeze.
Touch the new skin with wonder and place my mouth on it.

Just one day of unacceptable bliss; a need gone unfulfilled.
Oh, but I know what you’re thinking, you devil, you: I might
Become accustomed to eating and drinking without end.
I might fight for my life. But you are now and always the victor.

I couldn’t hear above the shouting. I looked outside to see two men and a woman screaming and gesticulating at one another. A love triangle? A deal gone bad? *****, to boot?

My vantage point was high enough so that they looked less like humans and more like feral little critters in a stand-off. I wonder what the view would be from the clouds above.

I kept on moving up and watched how the critters gradually turned into ants, then mere specks of dust. Sentient no longer, just annoying little ink spots that moved nilly-*****.

Their petty struggles, their grasping for what is beyond their reach, their quick devolution into ancient ways, shedding the veneer so carefully crafted all these eons ago now.

On my return trip, I gradually saw the human forms again, no longer in a ******* match. An exchange of apologies and a shaking of hands. A détente for the ages among this trio.

The odds are against us, the wind blowing in the wrong direction, no good deed goes unpunished. But for one second, under the microscope, there is soft grace on a street at night.

My mama always told me that brooding clouds meant that God was angry with his flock.
Portentous, gloomy, and downright depressing – they take over the sky as if they owned it.
Simply skipping rocks as I went, I kept trying to figure out a way to ward off their evil spell.

But growing up has its own unique benefits. No longer need I depend upon another’s superstition.
I’m a gloom lover, forever waiting for those dark clouds to wrap me up like a swaddling blanket.
A refugee from from the blinding clarity and judgmental vision of the sun that takes no prisoners.

I thought I wanted to see your soul, your being, your thoughts and impulses.

So I ordered MagLens from the infomercial on Channel 666 for $21.95 plus postage.

I returned it. Turns out I’d much rather live with with the light of lies than the dark of truth.