That nagging feeling that something is missing. All limbs accounted for. I’m at a loss. Searching high and low.
I felt increasingly as if someone was watching me as I ran around in a panic looking for this unknown piece.
It must be either a necessity or a beloved something. It’s bound to be in the last place I would think to look.

I couldn’t find good suspects inside so wandered about my property. There was an old tree I loved as a child.
It has a hollow that sparked something in me, a glimpse backwards to a young girl very frightened and disturbed.
I reached in and found a small, pristine kitchen knife, an obscene relic never used that gave comfort just being.

Ghosts surround me now. They torture me, dancing their devil steps toward me as I remember. I remember. I remember.
I have found what I what I was searching for. The unknown piece has fought its way from oblivion, refusing to stay quiet.
I  shout the unspeakable, the tree my witness and my solace. With tears of strength, I say “R.I.P.” to the little girl lost but found.

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.

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.

I’m in a music venue listening to a tribute band in Queen persona. The place is full and buzzing.
Everybody but my husband and I seem to be dancing. I’m on my third glass of wine and taking it all in.

A young woman approaches my non-young, non-dancing husband and demands that he join her in dance.
I could tell how uncomfortable he was, but she wouldn’t let him go. Was it just fun or was it mocking?

Then the magic happened. Our daughter, seeing the situation, cut in. She and her dad, with much tenderness and forgotten baggage, danced under the lights.  I took a mental picture of the glow between them,  love tested and won.

Through the haze of wine and smoke, I saw love and redemption. I don’t need anything else now.  I am home.

That brief but memorable moment that gives you the tingling chills. A biological response to a pleasure-inducing sound or vision.
My frisson today hit me out of the blue. Electrically charged, flying, seeing all the hidden hues, amazed at what I normally miss.

DNA at its finest, but why? To what end does it promote our species to experience such a rare moment of incomparable pleasure?
For those seconds, nothing was more important than the richness of life. I exist for these unpredictable moments of ecstasy.

                                                I am alive.

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.

Let’s dance through the maze and hope we never find the exit but dance swirly twirly with a fetish-like delight.

Let’s eat a quart of ice cream, one for you and one for me, adorned with chocolate-covered nuts and whipped cream.

Let’s run naked down to the sea in the middle of the night with our hair blowing in the wind and our voices at high pitch.

Let’s have one last warm and affectionate coupling on the sand at the beach before we hold hands and enter the sea.

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.

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.

Sometimes adrift is the best option. Uncertainty, a sure thing. Wavering, a symphony of resonance.
Leave the list for a whim. The cracks in the wall signal character; the tilt of the roof, charm.

Play like a child with a brand-new toy. See, smell, touch for the first time. Angle, circles, wood, plastic.
Forego the plot summaries and join the story. The runner runs backwards, the swimmer floats idly.

Swiggle a circle where there once was a box and leave hems undone. Plant your feet on terra non-firma.
Letting go. Swinging every which way. Lose the myopic lens. Black-and-white pales against blooming flowers.

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.

When did I become invisible? When did people almost walk right into me? When did I stop being acknowledged?

I don’t recall the year, the month, the day, or the time. It was as if I entered a different universe full of strangers.

They are young and bustling, a word that would never trip off their immortal tongues, these people of now.

I want to let them in on the secret, but they wouldn’t believe me. Because they don’t see me. See me no more.

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.

In my dreams I can sing like a bird. Waking up, I just croak trying. It saddens me that I can sing an aria only in my dreams.
I always start on a high note. Why can’t I sustain it? Maybe it is the pollution, the congestion of the air that fails me.

In slumber I am an artist of black and white prints that reveal one mystery after another unfolding before my eyes.
The next day I feel energized to create a masterpiece. Alas, my fingers recoil at the sight of my paltry attempts.

But awake I dance with a light foot and a dizzy head as I circle and swirl to my image’s delight, my heart as my witness.

I have been searching for the perfect tree. It has to reach the sky with limbs that embrace the world.

Its frond-like leaves would protect its master and shade all those who need to hide from the law.

It would be a magnet for vacationing creatures large and small who have lost their way in the world.

My tree would have cunning instincts when it came to survival not of the fittest but of the kindest.

It would turn its magnificent trunk away from those nefarious beasts who have only cruelty in their blood.

My dream tree eludes me still to this day. But I will never stop searching. Mankind’s survival is at stake.

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.

Looking through the murky water through mask-like eyes full of soul.
Darkness and mystery devoid of life replete with plastiky detritus.
My limbs askew foiled with the weight of water pinning me in place.
A narcotic to soothe the way. I will be hidden treasure under the sea.

Or looking up at the wondrous day that is clear and bright, with a golden sun.
Limbs as light as feathers feel of cool ocean breezes and expectations of joy.
My mind melts just enough to give me that unknown but dazzling feeling of peace.
I have time. I can float on my back until it is my time to turn over forever.

The weight of me has no force, no substance, no ballast.
Inconsistent, pandering, heckling, needful, shorn to the bone.

His is the salt of the earth, steady yet insistent, grounded to the earth.
Any spark of doubt doused without tension. Secure in his strength.

I fly without wings, look down for approval, wait for the storm’s end.
He looks up with eyes that say Don’t be fooled, I need you just as much.

An ungainly creature at first sight. A massive trunk with but a small canopy.
Ancient creatures as old as two thousand years that feed the world with pride.

Many have fairy-tale hollows massive enough to house critters and humans alike.
Every part of this monument blesses us with resources we use every day – no waste here.

The Baobab is the tree of life, never giving up. It deserves respect and reverence.
If you are ever so lucky to meet up with the Baobab, touch it with love.

And ponder its creation, this upside down species that spans the centuries.
Did it spring forth ready to do business, or did it adapt to its environment?

Is its existence assured, safe from predators who crawl all hunched over on two legs?
Only if the upright and valiant two-leggers among us prevail against the troglodytes.

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.

Paying attention no more just wandering aimlessly as my car interpreted the road. And there he was.

A shock of blond hair and and torn jacket just standing in the road with a tragic feral aura that hit me.

A sign? A human talisman? This scruffy little urchin stared right through me with keening eyes half closed.

Winds and jarring rain arrived unannounced so the trees began to genuflect and birds became suddenly shy.

I felt rooted to place, my car some type of shelter. This child reminded me of old songs and distant memories.

A little waltz that comes to an end too soon. Music that makes me feel alive until it doesn’t. Too much.

I maneuvered around the obstacle picked up speed and never looked back, driving in dizzying circles for miles.

Home is a luxury I can’t afford so searching for my lost life through the cavalcade of memories sharpened now.

A youth looked for me. He watched me. I left him. Just another in the list of memories to haunt my days.

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.

The point man was found sleeping next to the fossil remains and the ash from eons-old fires and brimstone.
That’s the doomsday part of it, that and the enraged clouds full of sound and fury ready to go to battle.

No tolling of bells, no backup troops come to save the day. Just whirlwinds and spiraling leaves as he sleeps.
The man surely had a point, didn’t he? Why bother to stay awake when we all know that it’s a facade?

Take the sun away. It hurts too much. Give me dark forest under a vague moon.

Let me lie down in the hollow of my tree with moss and petals as my bed. The dreams when they come will soften all blows from my past. All old senses will reappear.

Seeing the cloud patterns spelled out, hearing the affirming rustle of leaves, tasting The offering of overripe berries. The forest creatures are shadows that delight.

My breath is slowing, my heart relaxing. Is this living or is it hiding? Or is that merely a distinction without a difference?

Perhaps it is a reconciliation, an admission of my inherent weakness. I am deathly afraid of real beasts in this world.

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.

We chat about the weather, the high price of gas, the big win last night, who’s doing what to whom.
We don’t chat about our failing children, our oversized debt, our crushing depression and panic attacks.

We answer our phones, e-mails, our texts. We bring in the junk mail, the groceries, the dogs and cats.
We ignore the surrounding decay, the the worried looks, the angry chatter, the trigger-happy sensitivity.

Mirror images writ large on the landscape. Slithery snakes in boorish human clothing. Eyes glazed with evil.
We’ve become inured to the banal desecration of all that we held dear, forever and ever amen. God help us all.

Each chapter so far has been exquisitely detailed and filled with all types of characters in action or rest.

The preface was written before time began, with nods to either the creator or the abyss – take your pick.

The spellbinding stories progress through the ages of war and peace, beauty and hatred, longing and forgetting.

But where’s the afterword? Hell, where’s the conclusion? The book of us mysteriously stops before the grand finale.

I can’t loosen these chains without knowing the ending. For the love of god, please let me know how it all ends.

I so clearly recall the ice cream truck’s music because it meant the icey joy, the freedom of summer .

I always asked for the Big Stick in swirls of enchanting colors or a Fudgesicle when feeling daring.

My ahead-of-her-time mother had to be cajoled into allowing such frivolity in food choices.

One indeterminate day the music stopped. No more sweetness and light.  No more play. Lost joy.

Now when I hear the ice cream truck’s jarring jingle, I’m chilled by its menacing message of decay.

Bright eyes that see colors everywhere rather than a drab monochromatic view  of the world

A nose that can appreciate good Scotch and night-blooming jasmine, at the same time

Ears that can hear Mozart and Queen, a cascading waterfall, and the click-click of a puppy’s paws

A mouth that can open wide to condemn evil but stay tightly shut when listening to a friend

A battle of wills made by difficult by the witless on both sides. Discussions derailed by wild-eye gadflies on fire.
Goalposts travel here and there and then disappear. The crux is lost in the shuffle, replaced by ad hominems galore.

The gavel is coated with sound protection. The recordings are distortions  interspersed with specious conspiracies.
Look around and see the painfully contorted faces on the mouth breathers wrapped up like intricate pretzels.

No good fight in sight. Just power grabs and jostling for attention and 180 degree turns for the almighty dollar.
Where are the heroes, the selfless willing to break the chain of mendacity and vileness even knowing it will boomerang?

Boundaries have always fascinated me. The separation between here and there.
Fences abound to keep us in line, but the invisible ones are the biggest problem.
Connections are lost before they begin. You wave your arm in solitary alignment.

Really, aren’t we all in confinement? From crib to grave? Free will until it isn’t?
Even so, that’s hardly enough for us. The other is our enemy. We must stake our
Territory with no trespassers metaphorically allowed. “Keep Out” on the door.

But the final boundary?  – it’s beyond our sight and knowledge. How will we find it?
When do we feel that gravitational pull? Not to worry, my friends, not to worry.
The summons is writ large in the stars. That old fence will open wide -- and then shut.

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.

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.

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.

People of such presumed benighted nature that we have permission from on high to consider them as one lump, stereotyped to death.

Them

Not individuals, maybe even subhuman: We can slur them, avoid them, exploit them, deny them, punish them, reduce them to nothing.

Them

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.

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.

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.

It’s the old horizon trick. Spot a spot,  vanishes upon arrival. The plus is that you cannot be late. Get there not getting there.

The minus is you’re never there. You are stuck in a infinite loop not of your own making. No shaming here. Not here or there.

Better to stay rooted where you have planted your oaks, built your library, and cultivated the art of being here, right now.

Was Dorothy right or a victim of ginned-up memory? She was so pleased to be deposited right back at her beginning.
But the colors weren’t there. Where was the action? The danger that infused her journey and spiked her nerve endings?

I guess that she eventually acclimated to her old routine. Gradually the colors and tingly tension subsided into a memory.
She helped with the chores, later married a farmer from a nearby town, and put on her apron to raise corn and a few kids.

Maybe one snowy night, though, when Dorothy was in her twilight years, all alone in front of the fireplace nursing a dram,
She took solace in the fact that once upon a time she was the star of her own technicolor journey. Close your eyes, Dorothy.
                                                                                              
                         And dream a little dream for me.

I heard her calling out to me as I was searching for good luck.
At first I was startled, as I thought I was alone in my seeking.
I moved closer to the water to try to see her and ask her the reason.
I finally caught a glimpse of the most joyful  and radiant creature imaginable.

Her hair flowed all around her with a red sheen of fire and ice.
Her luminous skin had a delicacy to it that made me want to cry.
It was her smile, though, that gave me hope. It was a form of freedom unlike I’d ever known. I answered her call, and she beckoned.

Wary at first and full of distrust, I stood rooted in the wet sand.
And then she was gone, submerged in her deep blue home.
I waited and waited but she didn’t reappear. I gathered my shells
Found strewn among the seaweed and started up the closest sand dune.

My dreams that night and the next were as calming as I’ve ever had. A fiery light was off in the distance but evaded my reach until just before I awoke. I had embraced this entity and felt at peace. I knew I had to seek out this watery vision that had so enchanted me.

Back I went the next day to the same spot lodged against the same sand dune. My skin felt oily and my legs were wobbly. My voice barely registered my desire. I saw myself floating toward the sea, hovering over the seaweed and wet sand. I felt her hand grasp mine. Together we entered her world of beauty and serenity.

The connections weaving in and out recall a past when it was a marvel to be attached.
The pre-birth bliss before the fall, no worries, a perfect swim, a blank slate to be filled.

The chains that held people together tethered to the MAN recall a past and present full of tears.
Enslavement of body, heart, and soul destroys the body, heart, and soul of generations. Our legacy.

The bond between two people, fragile and ephemeral, is electrically charged until the storm comes.
Brothers, lovers, soulmate friends – one key word, one misstep, a torrent of mixed messages.

But the most intimate tie? Our inescapable mortality. We are locked together on that final path.
Oh, that we could circle back to the embrace of our beginnings – no worries, a perfect swim, forever.

Did you hear the one about? What’s up with [fill in the blank]? So I walked into this bar…  Holds the mic for dear life.

Sweat full of fear and loathing drizzles down the comic’s back as he takes a nip and tries once again to survive.

The cramped flights, the road tours, the buzzing barflys, the cheap Scotch, the dank rooms, the imitation food.

For one laugh. Even a guffaw. Hell, at least smile, you ******* hicks in your shitforsaken towns in Nowhere, USA.

Those in-between fleeting moments before you let go of the night and greet the day.
I walked into the kitchen and touched my mother’s shoulder. It comforted me.

Next was my watching her slowly die. I touched her shoulder and gave her fluids.
It comforted me, this girl and woman who existence was wrapped in fear and feverish
dreams that echoed reality. Words spit with venom that cut to the bone.

The  only touches I remember. The rest of the story belongs to the night and day of darkness
And fear and unfathomable head knocking to keep the the wolf at bay. Day and night.

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.

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.

It’s dark now, so it must be night. That was the rule by which we all played. We were faithful to time.
We could set our clocks on what we knew to be true. We had alarms to wake us up at the right time.
Time was on our side, if you look at it that way. It was clear and honest, and unmistakable. Unequivocal.

As time has gone by, we’re losing the old goalposts. We’re benighted by the loss of what held us together.
Big Ben silently weeps for what was. Watchmakers have no more time. We’re spinning out of control.
Frenzied by no schedule, no boundaries, we bump viciously into one another in a stupefied dance.

Lovers without time, friends untested by time, no time for resolutions of peace and good will, no time at all.
Time was our truth, not yielding to whims, never fake or malicious. It existed outside the realm of deceit.
But dark forces destroyed time and bent it to their will. Will we ever have time again?

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.

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.