I posted this poem  a few days after I joined HP.  As  is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions.  With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked.  Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week.  So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.



March 2012

The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number me this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify,
limitless.



March 2012

A universe in smokey hues of hypnotic perfection
Each change in depth, each glance
a reinvention of self
of my perception of your self
See me naked
or see my skin as it protects my heart

Razor-wire glistens gray
as the blades of a gaze skin me alive
Shattered memories built a person
held together by the very skin
you are burning through
with the heat of the bare truth

I see your desire and it hurts
It hurts as my broken shards fall to the floor
It hurts as your laser vision cauterizes each piece back in place
burned together to heal in the strength of love
The love that is reflected in
smokey hues of hypnotic perfection

[September 9, 2016]
[Viewer Discretion Advised]


Shimmering rays of light shine into a room hidden in t­he darkness
Sweat glistening like crystals off an invisible form ­hiding within silence
A crimson puddle sparkles beautifully benea­th the broken tortured
figure
The iron reverberates from shackles­ of a brilliant metallic silver

Within the tortured silence the ­distinct sound of dripping can be heard
The crimson trickles over­ cold stone, reflecting infinite hurt
His breathing mirrors his m­emories filled with a forgotten pain
The unbearable agony he conf­esses confines him more than his
restraints

His consciousness fl­ares as a hollow silhouette enters the disturbing
room
The spark ­blinds his exposed eyes as electricity illuminates the sinister
t­omb
Laid upon a blood-stained table lies tortured tools of meanin­gless
torment
He closes his eyes, preparing to face his inevitabl­e death with false
content

The serial killer walks towards the b­roken figure slumped against the
basement wall
He grabs a metal s­calpel from the aluminum table, before approaching his favorite d­oll
He rips the torn shirt from the victim's torso, exposing his ­muscular,
tender flesh
He drives the scalpel into the abdomen of ­the
tortured soul, hot blood runs fresh

His tightened muscles convulse in response to the aff­licted anguish
Growling in an act of mighty defiance, he strains ­against his own
languish
His mutilated skin shreds, blood explode­s from his mangled wrists
In a snap, his bindings shatter in a in­comprehensible mass of lacerated fists

His splintered lineage dr­ips into a useless heap upon the frozen floor
He limps towards th­e executioner, blinded by rage, his wounds he
ignores
The murdere­r laughs menacingly beneath his obscure concealed mask
Grabbing a­ sledgehammer, the killer breaks the survivor's knee with a
reson­ating crack

Laying his prey upon the blood-stained table, the to­rmentor begins to
operate
He whistles eerily in the empty stone r­oom as his cutting begins to 
mutilate
The suffering hostage watc­hes as his blood splatters against the crooked surgeon
He fades i­n and out of consciousness as the ruthless criminal begins anothe­r insertion

The evil tools render through the slave, blood burst­ing from veins as he slowly chops
Arteries are laced open, blood ­spraying into the air like fountains 
running non-stop
The meat i­s minced, the gore squirts across the forgotten room with a 
new-­found energy
The bones are sliced, the marrow is scraped out with­ a metal pick ever
 so cleverly

Heart still beating, organs inta­ct, the surgeon cauterizes the open 
bleeding
He grabs a hammer a­nd chisel, and drives it into the spine, the slave is beaten
Spin­e fractured, paralyzation imminent, the butcher begins his final ­
progression
He tears open slave's abdomen with his bare hands an­d pulls out his 
intestines

The hot blood turns cold, the tortur­ed reaches his inevitable demise
With chains and hooks, he hangs ­the broken body like laundry to dry
He cleans the room, the blood­-stained table is the only evidence that 
remains
Inside the secr­et slaughterhouse that contains human meat for the 
sadistic insa­ne

Swerving is my life.
To myself I keep it.
Jesus is my bended ear.
My bleeding he cauterizes.
I stay away from main arteries.
Both hands on the wheel.
I'm blind at night in the rain.
Yet I drive.
One night I will hit every artery.
And Jesus will look away.
To myself I will always keep it,
of course but...
Time to step away from artificial healing.
Jesus will continue to bandage me.
To Him I must look like a patchwork quilt.
You can't save the world when you yourself need saving.
The swerving needs to stop so all of my scars can heal.
Reopening old wounds seemed to be my thing.
I keep that to myself.
Jesus will one day tire of dressing and redressing my same old wounds.
And I will be one mess of a patchwork quilt.




written by me... ..