"bristled" poems
A normal kind of guy
Just the guy
No cosmologist
Sans Christian
********* the droplet suns
Distant in the blackened sky
Gotta 'and'er some
The bristled gristle
The cryogenic iris
Steel teeth gnashing
Right-toe left
Ardent in an autobiography
Good man
Soft man
Locomoted his GMC
to the Sea
Thought maybe
With precise aim he
could undertow away
paradise.
No pick-me-ups
In copper-channels
That Ionized the pick-up-truck
With archaea iron
that ugly duck
Reminiscent of the man
In all but--
A castaway
Stowaway
The man who never hesitates
Bop upon the interstate
Lost within
concritical maze
Shoring up
Going home
Giving up
Turned to stone
Marble chin
Solumn grin
Chlidren sing
Seeking wings
How'd he know
Where to go
Will he see
What it means?
He's the guy
The one with the lollipop lap
Licking the syrup off the lip
Of a sweet polished sapphire
Gin
And the kids
My god
They think he
ODYSSEUS
And his dog not yet
Dead but depressive in the gloom
Howling into the midnight grass
And the creatures that stalk
With their ******* youth
Soon their weight will hit the deck
And like a noose,
Break the joints
The planks of which would stress
And bend his eyes upon his head.
God willing
Should he be exhumed
His energies excape to the river
And float,
Penultimate,
into the sea.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Every time the bucks went clattering
Over Oklahoma
A firecat bristled in the way.
Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the right,
Because of the firecat.
Or until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the left,
Because of the firecat.
The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
And
Bristled in the way.
Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.
5.8k
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
applying his
lingual buds
to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
as a lava lake,
no stone skipped
just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
pounding thunder
in consonants of
taut skin drum
nuances in vowels
uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
before time
now ready
to be filled by the
essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
apart
heart
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew
he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.
Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,
was for rest the man hard pressed?
Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?
as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone
one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I am a cobra,
spiraling upwards.
Curling and slinking.
I am a cobra;
dangerous.
fangs dripping,
head dipping
lower
and lower
and lower.
Until I break up
and tilt my
forward.
Forked tongue
slips out.
I hiss away
all my doubt.
Folding my lanky, tall body
to fit my lengthy personality.
I am a cobra,
and I do a sultry dance.
I will not shake or dodge or prance.
I linger after every thought,
slip my way into the cold spongy grey tiled dance floor
until you cannot see me anymore.
I am a cobra,
you’d better watch out.
Sparkling white scales,
they shimmer softly in the moonlight.
A young
destroyer of worlds,
I take over the floor
and curl inwards,
then up,
then lift my floppy head
bristled all about.
I smile and sway,
then lick up the blood.
I am a cobra,
(so you’d better watch out).
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
I don’t know the moment we became friends
I don’t know the moment you transformed from a looming, strong-willed Sasquatch
To a cute ’n’ kind Koala
I’m not sure how you managed that change but I’m glad you did
Not that I’m saying you were the only one to change
Perhaps I was the Sasquatch before and have since softened into a loving Llama or a caring Camel
In any case, it really doesn't matter who did the changing
Just that it happened
That out of all the random connections that could be made
We were challenged to care for each other.
I don’t know what brought us together or why
Maybe it was nature challenging its bounds to see what it could get to fall in love with what
Perhaps it was just us realizing there was a kindred spirit behind all of that bristled Sasquatchian fur
Whatever it was I’m betting God was ultimately behind it
*** He’s legit like that
Honestly though, I’m glad it happened
I’m glad that my view of you changed.
I’m glad that I got to know you.
I’m stoked that we talk and let each other know what’s happening in life.
I rejoice that you were a persistent little Sasquatch when I had written you off.
I’m glad I can call you friend.
I can honestly say that I would take a bullet for you,
That’s right; I’ll be your guard Llama
I would traverse space and time, fight all laws of physics and all the sciences just to make sure you were ok
For you I would find Atlantis,
I’d find the “missing link”
I’d find all the things that are mysterious and leave you puzzling
I’d travel to places that aren't possible to reach simply because people have ceased to believe in them
And make strangers begin to believe again just to make you smile or distract you from the hurt for even a moment
My dear sweet little Sasquatch
I adore you
I treasure you
Couldn't live without you
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
Oh hail toothbrush, haven’t seen you since last night
I’ve returned again to cleanse an overbite
Spread the paste thick and minty across your bristled skin
Over the lips and on the culprits, 007 of oral hygiene going in
**** it feels good-
Morning scrubs do away with yesterday’s store appetizer samples
Clinging and eroding the ceramic protection of my enamels
Its poor thin concealing of my porcelain I must protect
Just a little more push and pull- haven’t even eaten breakfast yet
Foaming at the mouth, rabid plague of plaque I’m getting rid of
What extra harm for today’s meals I should have considered
But it’s alright-
My dentist smiles and offers a primary root canal adjustment
But the filling he’s drilling in won’t do too much for my budget
One hand to my jaw could cause my little car to swerve
Unbearable agony from the glass casing encasing that vital nerve
One hole’s enough for today-
Make it home, disgusted jaw line of cotton by the mirror
Spit soaked clouds are temporary relief for bearer
Grab the blender, toss it up, eggs and bacon with my juice
It’s no use- my straw’s stuck with gunk and nothing’s coming loose.
But what about this canker sore?
© 2008
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
When he was a youth of fifteen or twenty,
He chased a wild horse, he caught him and rode him,
He shot the white-browed mountain tiger,
He defied the yellow-bristled Horseman of Ye.
Fighting single- handed for a thousand miles,
With his naked dagger he could hold a multitude.
...Granted that the troops of China were as swift as heaven's thunder
And that Tartar soldiers perished in pitfalls fanged with iron,
General Wei Qing's victory was only a thing of chance.
And General Li Guang's thwarted effort was his fate, not his fault.
Since this man's retirement he is looking old and worn:
Experience of the world has hastened his white hairs.
Though once his quick dart never missed the right eye of a bird,
Now knotted veins and tendons make his left arm like an osier.
He is sometimes at the road-side selling melons from his garden,
He is sometimes planting willows round his hermitage.
His lonely lane is shut away by a dense grove,
His vacant window looks upon the far cold mountains
But, if he prayed, the waters would come gushing for his men
And never would he wanton his cause away with wine.
...War-clouds are spreading, under the Helan Range;
Back and forth, day and night, go feathered messages;
In the three River Provinces, the governors call young men --
And five imperial edicts have summoned the old general.
So he dusts his iron coat and shines it like snow-
Waves his dagger from its jade hilt in a dance of starry steel.
He is ready with his strong northern bow to smite the Tartar chieftain --
That never a foreign war-dress may affront the Emperor.
...There once was an aged Prefect, forgotten and far away,
Who still could manage triumph with a single stroke.
2.3k
Bristled blue feathers
Like nature's forgotten child
She chirps to no one
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
As the beautiful leaves
upon high bristled trees
must fall as fall turn winter
we must, as time comes
fall over and die
but we shan't do it alone-
yes... together
for we must die
and while many years shall go by
until we must think of such things
we need not mourn this fate
this ominous end, this opening gate
for just being allowed to die
makes us lucky
for the number of people unborn
the acceptance of existence- torn
shadows any number we could see
more than the grains of sand
in the sahara, and
more than the fishes in the sea
and of those unborn ghosts
are greater poets, better hosts
better scientists, never to put on lab coats
when thinking of the billions
that could be here replacing the millions
making our existences seem small and meek
against these stupefying odds
you and I, no scourge of the gods
in all our ordinariness
well we...
we are the lucky ones.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
I moved in with Mr McGoo , he seemed a pleasant bloke
a bit chatty for one but then beggars cant be choosers.
He gave me the guest room and a skeleton key and
a King James Bible. He left , mumbling something about an
Optometrist's appointment as he stumbled through the door.
The Flivver coughed, spat and rattled.Mcgoo was in control
and of he roared away still mumbling about pork bellies and such.
Herky jerky relic with a hurdy gurdy horn.
The winding stairs led me hither so down the rail I slid
In search of McGoo venture. To suss where the safe was hid.
Rumor has it that He struck it rich one day and promptly
sailed west and bought the House of Divine Pleasures
overlooking Frisco Bay. Who knew.
As luck would have it, he forgot to close the safe so
there it stood wide open a square hole in the southern wall.
The Standing Shiva glared at me his arms like deadly serpents
One named Beckon the next on Call. The other six arms bristled
with bronze and iron death.The Shiva winked his middle eye and
tears streamed from the other two.
The safe still hung wide open McGoo was such a bounder.
He knew me well and he could tell the weakness in my soul.
for he and I had broken bread and severed heads in youthful
days of yore. He knew I was a scoundrel and a thief.
The Shiva had a weakness for women and the drink and
him with eight arms and such became to be a bit much at the
pleasure spot in Frisco. He had to go. So
I turned and returned from the liquor cabinet a bottle of
McGoo's best bathtub Gin in tow. The Shiva came a running cross,
a smile a mile wide drooling. With arms outstretched, boy he could fetch.
Could not hold his spirits though. Never could. Out cold in no time flat.
The safe gaped open like the grave six deep.
So. I walked up slowly to it and strained to look within
There sat old McGoo's ear trumpet and spare glasses
a handful of rain checks stacked neatly in a corner.
Along with his last will and testament written out in Braille.
Just then I heard the Flivver pop. I had to stop.
close the safe. Empty the flower vase on Shiva.
Up the stairs I bounded. closed my door and started
Sleeping.
Oh McGoo , you've done it again.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
windowless day,
particles of strange salt on his brow,
generator man
on the coil,
double-sided,
a love for radioactive honey:
a storm in a teacup...
but for some reason
could not reciprocate
due to the metallic taste in his mouth,
and so he seemed driven
to build his electrical dream,
and took comfort from his pigeons,
the “lightning machine,”
the hair on his head bristled
as he discovered his purpose
in rings of glory that died
as flags of dust...
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 9:15 AM UTC
Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
After multiculturalism struck this
week, Vervoort said, “I would like to express
my support to the victims
of the attacks of this morning …”
Twitter bristled
with supportive hashtags,
the Belgian flag and professions
of solidarity. The Times editorialized:
“Brussels, Europe, the world must brace
for a long struggle against this form
of terrorism.”
All this would be perfectly normal if
we were talking about an earthquake or some other
natural disaster — something humans have
no capacity to prevent. But Muslims
pouring into our countries and committing mass
****** isn’t natural at all. It’s the direct result
of government policy.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
I wrote these words while you were sleeping
Lost between the sun and moon
Wrapped so tight in shadows seeping
Fractured light a’ dance your room
Eyes now closed and softly breathing
Peace it seems does seek your mind
Drifting off to sighed believing
Distant thoughts of wishful kind
Still the monsters come a’ motion
Bearing teeth of sharpened steel
Tearing through this deep devotion
Praying on your soul to feel
Running paths of darkest hour
Endings seem so far from view
Reach, my hand it wields the power
Strength abounds protecting you
Bristled thorn of endless bleeding
Fear a’ grip your skin so tight
Here I stand to slay the demon
As you lie this whispered night
Place your heart in this my station
Lone of every captured whim
I shall last this strained duration
So your smile may rise again
Rest my precious love a’ keeping
Fear no more for I shall stay
Deep within your silent sleeping
To keep you safe this autumn's day
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
He knew that he was an Alien, He knew that he was peculiar, He knew that he was different, He knew the Air-Prince would continue to encourage others to Strike-Out at Him~ whether they knew the meaning of that which he spoke ! They even made fun of his name~ they would blurt out~ There goes "AWKARD AL" ~ Words bellowed out~as if to a 100psi ! ! They tried to throw enough "HOT" words to Blister~His Back. Then one day, while at a concert, a few moments before it was to begin,~ a LOUD Murmuring ~ hovered over the audience. and in Unison they proclaimed ~"There sits ALDIN AWK, the man whose words Bristle with Brackishness .! and they~.....Chanted in unison " His words Bristle with Brackishness" , they repeated the chant over and over. Aldin stood up, the crowd thinking ~that He was about to leave the concert. To their surprise~ he walked to the stage~ was handed the microphone~ bowed his head for a Moment...... and as He began to speak~ "EVEN GREATER WERE THE BRISTLED WORDS OF BRACKISHNESS" that came from him thru the tears "Pouring forth" ....
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
Dash your art upon this stony logic and let bleed the colors. Gesso and treat the crevasses in this cliff mind and tighten your perspective.
Do not be afraid, these lines bend with your smile. Take it upon yourself to see what can’t be and make it so.
With bristled courage strike out against this ashen terrain and find your way home again. But stray not too long in the kettle warmth and poppy seeds, for even your willow locks long the sea again.
You throw salt in the eyes of those that seek you if only to season their sight. Hex and jinx in clandestine circles but do not forget that by a friends hand you learned these flairs.
Take to your faerie kind and seek the forest in yourself. Within the trees you are free.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:35 PM UTC
Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.
I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.
Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.
When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
Each day dawning would
gift me new eyes of wonder,
right from my childhood
a friend, from this lone and lonely tree,
I'd fervently hope for something different,
rushing to the window,
I view that elegance
as the first auspicious thing
to gaze at, as the custom suggests.
After the morning light creates a pool
above the verdant hills at the east,
yet again a regular ritual,
the tree is my magical yard stick
by which I measure myself,
a mysterious pact between us
existed, deep in mind, I had felt
only we know between us
even if the breeze says, that aloud often.
In her presence every thing becomes clear.
As I watch the tree, as usual
after the repetitions of long
years of rain, shine and mist in between,
what I saw that moment was different:
On every branch seeking light,
bristled flowery wonders
songbirds, absent till the day before
in droves sat all over the crown,
in unison singing her paeans sonorously,
purple rays of morning sun
adorned each leaf, in colorful embrace.
Wasn't it the moment I was yearning for?
I stood filled with it's effulgence,crown to root
the connection in an instance, becomes clear,
there is no secrets left unsaid between us any more--
In a flash , a golden window opens in inner chamber
I feel free from, the bindings of all mundane desires
as one rows the boat, the miseries of Samsara,
the treacherous rapids, are left behind for ever.
Isn't it enlightenment, at the moment
seeking me unassumingly through my open windows?
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Briefly, I glimpsed a lone tiger today.
Felt her presence at distance, as she
smoothed bristled fur... with
rough tongue!
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
Youth had it comin'.
Shoulda never worn that pretty dress.
Shoulda never walked through that door.
Shoulda never sat
on the most rickety chair
in the joint, fallin'
on my lap th' way she did.
Kinda knew it would happen,
too. Always could tell
a fresher face-ripe for
the pickin', I always used ta
say.
*Well, now, did you step
on one of them pork-yoo-
pahns, lil missy?*
*Nice to meet you, Girl.
His name is Inevitability.
You might've missed him,
looking from the corner
of the wall opposite the back
of your head, whistling Dixie
on your bristled follicles
mid-daydream, via inhale.*
Gathered herself, laughed.
Jackpot. Told me,
after a couple drinks, that she
wasn't
any sorta damsel in de-stressss,
that she knew all. Mind you, all!
The tricks in the fairy tale
handbook. Front to back,
to boot!
Fed her Cinderella fr'm top
to bottom, ate it up like
a backwoods ******
*Speakin' of storytellin',
you wanna know what
my favorite Shake-spee-uh sayin'
is,* hm? *'s the one where
the lady wants ta be a man,
them loony Europeans.*
*Anyway, one of the guys there,
puffs up his chest n' shouts,
"Some are born great. Some
achieve greatness. N' some
have greatness just ******
right up on 'em"*
*Get up outta that chair,
pretty lady, and get ready
for a time you ain't* ever
gon' forget
*It was then that nightfall
spilled over like a broken ink bottle,
salivated over the horizon with
the hunger of a bleeding river's mouth
as all our girdles loosened,
and with the last protracted sigh
of metallic wisdom, hushed our
brigade of inner children's choirs,
massaged the cramp settled
on the back of our left legs,
turned out the lights,
and went to sleep.*
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
The ghost from my lungs on the first cold step, the vapor that spirals out of my blood to dance as crystals on the cape of the dawn.
Her arms around my shoulders, pressing the blades, lamenting climbing in together when I would be the only one getting out.
Stepping in and dropping my bags in all directions, having none of them come running to investigate the invader of days.
Chill rolling on the inside of my skin and across the palms of my hands, only combated by the brush of your kiss.
A mistress of mistrust who sets lasers to **** just let you waltz in, even curling up behind your knees like you’ve been here forever.
Sweeping of lips on the line of my shoulder, a sweet settling of nerves so I won’t miss you too much on the far side of the bed.
When she lays on my bed with a gap in between, leaving just enough room from elbow to elbow for our souls to slide in and conspire.
The probing of the snowy wet nose of the gummy-eyed dog, bald but for patches of scratches and running zany with zest.
Swelling that builds up in my spine as you leave, filling and growing like insulating foam, an expanding despair.
Bristled fur and the slink in her walk when she’s asking for favors, a coyote stalking voles in the stems of dry grass.
Standing again as a phantom on the path, reading again the first tentative steps, still yet to find a single thing to regret.
The way the words just come pouring out like well water when she asks, running out the mud until it flows clear.
When the sun shivers and floats and then settles like dust on your eyelashes as you sleep.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC