I.
The moon sings the languid flower,
  to bloom at midnight hour
Harmonious feast transpires -
  luminescent choir

Petals mirror la hue de Luna,
  but pale below her glow
Though the desert sweet aroma,
  is fragrance plus photo

Neither causing nightly failure,
  in idyllic charm
In fact, those powers are greater,
  together than apart

II.
The moon a long gone distant rock,
  yet pulls on ocean tops
Cereus lures with sweetest tricks,
  and stings with countless licks  

Battered holy asteroid face,
 woos flawless solar gaze
And even though it causes mire,
  lunar eclipses fire

The cactus thrives in driest sands,
  and chokes in fertile lands
Alluring lonesome wanderers,
  promising mere water

The lucid beauty bewilders,
  as much as it can haunt
In fact, those powers are greater,
  together than apart

III.
You, once my cereus and moon,
  were drowned in my love well
Perhaps, I was this to you too,
  though your hole I’d not delve

However, what was first velvet,
  morphed into devil’s horns
Winter shed those thorns in my chest,
  now spring gifts hope and more

The icy grips of each winter,
  provides spring fuel to spark
In fact, those powers are greater,
  together than apart

IV.
Although we've gone on our own ways,
  I wouldn’t change the past
For each step was necessary,
  to find true love at last

We were once greater together.


I’m now greater apart.

Monsoon thoughts are never ending,
constant inside, harder to hide.
when time doesn't pass.
all the clocks are left with empty hands.
and these are the driest drops of rain.
finding the creases inside of my brain.
where they mold themselves into pictures of you.
and time changes from brimstone to blue.

Your eyes are the world's driest desert begging for the safe waters of destiny.

Hills on top of fathomless hills  
Where I have built my home
I walked here through the driest desserts
Swam here through the deepest seas
Hiked here through blizzards on mountains
A little piece taken each moment  
Until I reached these hills
At top the rise of the earth
I look out at the universe
I can look out and say
I have been here
I have left my mark
Where it is the most important
I can look at the people building
Their  homes and dreams and goals
And know they to will stand about
Their own hill, they will know that they
Made a difference in the world
Just by breathing the air
By making one laugh
And with that I may stray to the Mothers
Arms
And be sound , knowing I did my part

plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.

dead soldiers from the night before
stared up from their hiding spot still
in their brown uniforms
the snap of the sheath was lost in the
snap crackle and pop of the dying embers
the blade of the axe tested on a thumbnail
cut a satisfying line to proof the sharpness
you turned with precision and gravel crunched
beneath your feet, eyes searching for the
driest piece to feel the point of the heavy head
your whistling echoed from your lips as
trees dance to your tune in the not so gentle breeze

fleshy hands and oak handle embracing
log victim placed on the sacrificial stump
lined up your trial mark 'practice makes perfect'
the swift swinging arm motion followed by
sound from a sudden swing forced a new echo
through the trees landing with a solid thump
and silence
with more whistling eerily into the silence between
the splitting of each one after another, the red painted
axe head was gleaming with each chop while ready
to work again and again and...

my thoughts a swirling grave
orange tasting pavement
mint gum in my pocket
chewed
a small ill defined girl swung her head but
kept her drink level
it did not spill
there was a felon who was proud
and a blue that was fallen
the driest eyes
in a desert of music
people swaying and reaching out
but as outmatched as ivy
and skin
to the torrent of clouds
orange tasting light
burnt skin
burnt paper
orange tasting prayers

In the driest times of my life.

When the days were young
and the skies were clear,
You stood at the midst
of grassless plains and soulless trails,
of footprints made by one
who had none at all
but his void of a heart.
Sick, depressed;
waiting for his demise,
his very own destruction.

but,

You were like rain pouring
to quench a desert's thirst.

You were like wind blowing
upon still and quiet pastures.

You were like fire burning,
consuming until nothing -
was none at all.

You were something.

until

Your winds blew harder
and Your sails grew wider;
until the shine in Your eyes
could be seen no more.

I grew weary,
tired of being a vessel so empty.

I could not run away,
because at every end —
and at every stop —

I would always find myself
wanting for more of You.

I may not be your destination,
but I know that You are mine.

I will always find myself
coming back to You.


The dreamer dreams
of nightmares too
of visions,  so clear
so bright and blue
But we always know
that dreams end too
too late to say that—

I Love You.

I'm pretty sure
Eyes glaring
At the surface of my soul
Isn't supposed to feel
Any less like a stabbing to the heart.
But it does.
You have cupped
My burdens
In both of your hands
And sprinkled them over
The driest corners of my mind,
Watered them,
And let them grow
Slowly
Into something lovely.

I'm pretty sure
That every hiccup of an
'I miss you'
Isn't supposed to
Cause my blood
To blush warm.
But it does.
You toy with words
In the best way
Making sure each syllable
Is coated in
Silky persuasion
And I try,
Believe me, I do,
To let them sink
Into this heart,
You've called beautiful
Far too many times.

I'm pretty sure
Your lips have quivered
And tired of
Grinning encouragements
And whispering warmth
And uttering
'I love you's
But they haven't.
For this, I am pleased.
And this fluttering thing
Residing in my chest
Can't find a way out
To tell you,
To thank you.

plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.

What a perfect setting to tell this love story just like the land her heart was barren and Georgia O Keefe
Speaks of it perfectly “Such a beautiful untouched lonely feeling place such a far part of what I call the
Faraway” how many times had she dreamed of being able to lay her head beside another on the pillow
But still the years increased and no prince rode into view against the backdrop of what others saw
Just as weary empty barbarous land the artist O Keefe with fine acute sense ability blended contrasted
Harshness to bring forth exquisite beauty from bovine grazing herds to one individual that left only its
Whitened scull stared with empty eye sockets on the cruel reality of an unforgiving land but even this
Spoke an unequivocal announcement of beauty rugged startling severe the sun sky and earth told the
Story of quiet irreversible glory magnificence magnified multiplied would capture and enthrall even
Greater than when this creature lived and breathed as well her life would whisper the sweetest accord it
Was like a life time had forgot then with richest hues the flames leapt to daring and fulfilling life truly
She was driest tender what moisture there was derived from tears of regret and longing just a tender
Touch With feeling and passion it came to full expression when she stood at the end of this great field
The sun Dried weeds started to stir from the rising breeze she stood there beside a lone tree and as this
Picture Took full hold of her soul in the distant horizon her answer of a lifetime of longing arrived on the
Wind he dropped his biplane gently upon the face of the field a golden rush overtook her feelings like
A Flower without water she was in a state of drawn feebleness and want now her skies were filled with
The wonder clouds of rain they came in a fury after the long draught she didn’t know this clearly but she
Sensed it with womanly intuition two kindred spirits now would come to know fulfillment because at
The Center of everything love is predominate and it’s not just a feeling it’s a person he goes to the very
Core and center of existence he sees and truly knows when the sparrow falls he all so knows when we
Fall in love first because he arraigned it took it from the fragile frail wisp of thought gave it a birth place
In the heart and as it grows it ends up ruling a life of love and devotion but for misses Beal it was just a
Another day for Jon tungsten it was just a time to do a little barnstorming in Santa Fe the fall had been
Full and promising now it became even more gratifying and promising this land at first considered a
Tortuous place gleamed and was unalterably a dreamscape how tenderly wonder touched and wound it
Self around your emotional well being but for the moment our heroine returned to her job a quick
Telling of the hotel La Fonda where she worked “La Fonda is a Santa Fe landmark, just steps
Away from history and art museums, a variety of galleries and shops, historic churches and, of
Course, the Plaza. The historic inn’s Pueblo-style architecture features thick wood beams, latilla
Ceilings and carved corbels. Special touches such as hand-crafted chandeliers, tin and copper
Lighting fixtures and colorful tiles add character and charm. Beautiful hand-carved and hand-
Painted furniture and displays by local artists create a rich ambience. La Fonda has always been
A Local gathering spot and a hub of activity. World War II journalist Ernie Pyle wrote, “You
Could Go there any time of day and see a few artists in the bar…a goateed gentleman from
Austria or a Maharajah from India or a New York broker… You never met anyone anywhere
Except at La Fonda.” So as chance would have it the pilot adventurer and hotel manageress
Would also cross paths under favorable circumstances due to him having a slight mishap with his
Plane and without it this story wouldn’t have unfolded he was only slightly bruised the only
Evidence was a sling that held his right arm but it meant a delay and a stay so busy was her life
In doing for others little did she know the tables were about to be turned who could count the
times that she had watched the couples holding hands holding deep long glances going out on the
Floor to dance and longed for the same to be her life there is some who believe there is a
universal
Attunement and alignment at work in our lives it seems so here she the great tree that bare no
Fruit his life lived fully but at the center there was emptiness all it took was a cordial meeting out
On the patio dining section among trellises hanging flowers a full golden harvest moon and a
Sweet autumn breeze only a greeting was made but in the depths that only the soul knows a
Connection had occurred somewhere there was the smallest muffled sound a foundation had
Moved unseen but powerfully moving a new building stared to be built the next time a little
Longer conversation then a dinner was arraigned one was wowed with tales of the barnstormer
Life while at the same time a root had fastened itself to a wild ones heart the steady stability that
Showed out of her life was for some reason the most attractive thing he could imagine her life
Made his life take form and made a base where truth was undeniably lived grandly a love so
Great could only be told in the ski with barrel roles loops and dives clouds white and puffy and
Blue that is almost incomprehensible the days washed in to their lives like the land that told its
Secrets through beauty conjured against stark backdrops elegance pristine acute almost painful
Was the soft divergent quality revealed but before they could fly off into the western sunset fate
Would raise its heavy hand and an accident would claim her love as it did so many others of that
period so she donned the black widows apparel but rich beyond words was the man who had the
brightest blue eyes he was her guardian her keeper no longer did she long for love it had stepped
beyond the azure blue and every time a plane passed over head she was thrilled and amazed with
The life she had known when a heroic flyer took her far from her down to earth life spelled out
Heaven in such glorious terms like the gentle sound of a Spanish guitar drifting out on the plaza
Her life is filled with a haunting music that is the knowledge of all who love and have been loved

There lies a desert void of life
There lies a desert void of water and void of food
There lies a desert void of all good things
In this desert lies death
In this desert lies air more dry than dead bones
And in this desert lies pain more than can be imagined

For I wander throughout said desert
Seemingly with my lonesome
With no one to turn
And with nowhere to go
So I sit on a rock and wait
Then a promise of water comes to me from Above

But when the driest of days come over the horizon
And the hottest of times comes to my face
I almost give up, leaving the promise
And then I feel like I have moved on from that promise
But I cannot leave what came from Above
Oh me of little faith!

So I wander seemingly alone in this desert
For days upon days, weeks upon weeks
For months upon months, even years upon years
Longing for even a drop of water to satisfy my thirsty soul
But here in the dry desert the water is unfound
For all of the water has evaporated into the dry desert air

But on the horizon I see what I’ve longed for
I see what looks to be a spring
Bringing water to the dry desert ground
To satisfy the thirst of this dead dry country
And as I approach this great gorge of water
I am killed with the realization that no water lies here

For I have been tricked
By the images in my head
And the physical needs of my body
I have been deceived
The green and lush never truly existed in this dead dry desert
Only this mysterious mirage in my misunderstood mind

So still I search across these dry dead lands
For the water that might bring life back to my tired soul
But time and time again
The mirages ****** my hope for satisfaction
But soon enough I know I will find the promise
And reach the flowing waters to satisfy my soul

One day, I find myself a well
A well that may be full of water
Water that may wet my thirsty tongue
But when I look into that deep well
I see a crack in its basic foundation
And no clean water lies in this broken cistern

So I drop my bucket into that deep broken well
Hoping for a mere drink of water
But in the bucket comes muddied, dirtied water  
And when I pour that water into my thirsty mouth
My thirst is not satisfied, it is only magnified
And I am more thirsty than I have been ever before

So I take another drink
But this broken cistern holds water that cannot satisfy
Water that may merely increase my thirst
That will only bring forth the day of my death
For my mouth is as dry as this desert sand
And I will die here in this dry desert of death

I am like dead dry bones in the valley of death
With no flesh or breath to give me life
But then when I find the water that gives life
Flesh will come about my bones
And He will breathe breath into my lungs
Then for the first time, I will have true life

I wander on never finding the water I require
But then I stand and look heavenward
And I hear my weary voice cry out “My bones are dried up!
All hope is lost, and I am cut off!”
So I stand in the dry dying desert
Alone with nothing and no one to hope in

Then His glorious voice responds; “I will raise you from your graves
I will put My Spirit in you, for I am the Lord your God
I am with you to the end of the ages
For My Son, your God reigns with me
And our Name is Immanuel
For I am with you."

And I fall to my knees
For there lies a cistern unbroken
I look deep into this well and see a promise unforsaken
For the well is filled with sweet satisfying water
And I drink never to thirst again
For He is the Living Water, and I am satisfied in Him

I've been searching, and in my tone of lost hope, I call for you
Many have answered, claiming to be my heart's Spartacus
They battle for my love, only to show they aren't you
Like a famished agnostic peasant, I question your existence
With every experience, it becomes easier to disprove you
Are you really there
Will I ever find my matching pair
Is it true
That it's in the darkest hour, the light will shine through
Is this a test of my loyalty to your love
If it is, I must admit I will fail
I've soared higher than any bird in search for you
Only to share the mistake of Icarus, and fall back down
I've swam deeper than any fish in search for you
Only for Poseidon to help me drown
Traveled the driest desert in search for you
Only to be revealed that you are an emotional mirage
I've been blinded by faith
Deafened by tales of you
Devistated by love

I am sitting up in a bed of lace duvets, their yellowed hues glowing in the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the lone window. The room is musty, old, and smells faintly of the sea. As I tilt my head back and close my eyes, another scent, this time one of cherry blossoms and pears, fills my nostrils; this is my grandmother's bedroom. The walls are almost an off-white, a dull green tint the only memory of the color they once bore brightly. Birds are chirping, and I can hear the faint sound of fluttering outside the ancient window. A bluebird, perking up its feathers, sings its cheerful melody as it sits perched on the ledge. I smile at it, and it seems to bob its head, cocking its face towards me, as if in that one strange instant, it understood. The bluebird pauses for a moment before flitting away to his friends, eagerly feasting on the myriad of feeders hanging low on tree branches close by. Sighing, I lean back once again on the antique, yellowed bed frame, breathing in the familiar scent of the old white pillows. Slight violin music drifts in from the radio in the other room where my grandmother sits, silently knitting a surprise my sister will adore. The violin sings a song of a via dolorosa, of a crestfallen love that could never ensue, but still shone brilliantly. Tenderly, I pick up the book I'd been reading, carefully running my small fingers along its fragile spine, burying the aged pages in my nose, breathing in its rich aroma. The words take me to magical places, far-off worlds, daring adventures, the promise of mystery at every turn. For that is what a book is, is it not? A mystery waiting to be solved, a story that can transform the hearts of millions, a love that can spring up from even the driest of deserts...all that in the beautiful simplicity of words, words from the human soul itself, words that portray the depths in which the heart can swim against the coursing currents, the heights at which the soul can fly amidst the coming storm. I am flying now, on my way to Neverland, Oz, Camelot, The Hundred Acre Wood, 221B Baker Street, River Heights, Hong Kong, Camazotz, a secret garden.. I am the bluebird, flying high above everything else, traveling to unknown worlds of intoxicating adventure, experiencing
sorrow,
friendship,
love,
heartbreak,
joy,
death,
envy,
rage,
empathy,
horror,
romance,
terror,
and curiosity...
...all in time to be home for dinner.

There is a soothing pool,
Which with the driest dirt,
No man shall break its rule,
It stands to be assert,
As outlaws start to drool,
When these men hurry first,
They encounter their duel,
A man with crimson shirt,
To man he is no fool,
They try to make sure he is hurt,
By using deadly tools,
Some disguise to a friendly flirt,
To try to become cool,
But he does not attempt to lurk,
Cause they were very cruel…

When the mountain
  I am afraid to climb
The ropes and tackles
  Are in abundance.

In perfect shape
 My body and mind
Not a weak link
 In the expedition.

But when the mountain
  I dare to climb
The ropes and
 Tackles are tangled.

In ill shape
 My body and mind.
Weakness as a
  Spell does bind.

Hopes and dreams
  Of tireless youth
Spend fast in
 The spiritually aged.

Strength  the glittering
 Cloak of youth
Fades in weakening
  Jaded resolve.

But in me all common
  Traits dissolve.
The bucking steed
  Will ne’er be tamed.

Pigeon-holed  the
 Misfortune of other souls
Has not been allowed
 By my rebellion.

But this resolve is
  Not without price--
The foothills of youth
  Are far removed

By erosion caused by
 Unstable belief systems
Washed away into
  The Sea of Ambiguity.

A distant mountain
  I sometimes see--
Distance  the deceiver
 Of proportion.

Challenged at the foot
 Of the formidable sight
Halfway climbing 
 Only to slip and fall.

Does this mountain
 Need to be climbed?
Do youthful dreams
  Need to be fulfilled?

When these dreams
 Are all you ever had
You wake up falling
  Or climbing higher.

Driven by dreams
 And gifts and talents
That rage like a river
  In the driest desert

Calling home
 What must come home.
Holding on to what
 Must be fulfilled.

Obstacles that have
  Become landmarks
Seem to fade
  Into obscurity

Like threats that
 Always remain empty.
Laughing at what
 Used to bring tears.

I remain standing
 Through all these trials
Not unscathed 
 And a bit weather beaten

Halfway up another
 Formidable mountain
Making up for lost time
 From a major fall.

i am underwater plugging
multiple leaks in this vessel
we built together.

but i’m not wet, i’m dry-
the driest shipwreck you
ever saw, deep down…

the moon looks
unnatural
in a hot sky
and rising and sinking
seem to reach the same
                                              
        conclusion.

Even in the darkest caves,
The lowest depths
The driest seas
Something seems to sparkle.

Broken glass glistens in the light
It cuts me, so delicately
And you watch me bleed
Yours eyes light like fire
The intensity of your gaze is evident.

Some might call it sick
But we're all diseased with a common plague.
We find glory in watching others pay the price
For our mistakes and falters.

And still, others may call that cynicism.

There comes the disbelief
and the day
when a daughter comes to tell
the matter

And she knows you can't help
She knows there's no way
to convince
that afternoon to think about it....

No way to stop the fire in the leaves
of the driest April in twenty years
as it blackens the acres
and blurs the eyes
to all but its own emergency

Before it
the hay of last year's weeds
and all those buds that hope conceives

the flight of all that lives...

The plight before...
...The fire-line...

forces every hand
to the pure product of heat and light--
then to ash
and not to ask "This once was living?"

A senior class wrote their friend good-byes
...could not bring herself to...
...bring herself there....

She had to bring the mourning home
to make alive
to raise the sun--

"He slammed the medicine chest
And saw....
walked through the kitchen
opened the frig for the zillionth time...
Then walked a mile
in the woods behind his house."

Warm for April
short-sleeve warm

"...And I keep thinking
how the sun must've felt on his face and arms
He must've been swinging the jug
and--
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?

They found the empty amber
a hundred yards behind....

I keep seein' 'im put the handful to 'is mouth...
...Then the jug...
He must've had to swallow hard
They say you could tell
...where he stumbled...
...by the leaves...
...found 'im    on 'is side    with the jug
...just beyond    'is hand...

Oh Ma!  
I CAN'T!  I CAN'T!"

...So I--
"Maybe he was mouthing the words to a song.
...anyway the birds went on
and he was still warmed by the April sun

when they found him."

i don't think it's fair
to hide away
by the way
it was the driest parts of you
that made the spell of aging
fade
like freckles in the winter
bloomed only to evade
like wax heavy and damp
take another pill
to ease those cramps
or maybe just light your own candle next time
because i guess we're both a little damaged
or have seen too many moons
either way
there will always be unmarked tombs
and cigarettes to cloud the air
and graze fingers as a reminder
you're only seventeen
too young not to care
you grew with such ease
orange trees
sprawling roots remain to prove
gods talk as loud as monsters do
but heaven will always have gates
to keep out lovers naive to fate
and pyramids tell the geometrical truth
Wes
the blood on the floor
would be better hidden beneath a bruise
because theres no time like the present
is time a present
or a curse
is the water clearer or worse
on your side of the bridge
and how long will it take to cross?
i don't want wet feet for christmas
forever is a greedy business
when sincerity lacks
scars sliver like snakes
my lips beg this cycle to break
pull sleeves down
to avoid demons that drop
from sky to ground
to dust beneath the Tennessee sun
just in time for draught thats begun
breaking southern girls who are fragile
enough to turn from glass to stone
so stop complaining and open your eyes
its april again
even the birds stopped crying
your tears will turn to mud
scrape them from you
knifes aren't only good for killing
and when i opened my mouth to scream
you silenced my cries
my words never said as much as my eyes
opened wide as i utter in sorrow
if you died today
i'd die tomorrow.

a tree abandoned by the forest
and overshadowed by the sky
knows this kind of loneliness
where no doe would seek shelter
and no bee share its fruits
seeds fall gently into the stream
where the wind gives no answers
and the clouds race forward
offer no shoulder to the teary twig
there the roots are small, yet they find
a way through the hardest of soils
and the driest of seasons
hide in a place where the fire
doesn't turn cold

Sisyphus compelled to roll his boulder,
the poet who attempts to reconcile
what he knows with what he feels,
sensing even in compulsion
his stony effort no match for gravity.
Knowledge transmuted into feeling,
feelings obverted to some new knowledge,
a seismic process that rolls in waves,
peaks of insight, troughs of mental block,
all to foist a new perception upon the world,
squeeze perspective from the driest fruits.

What devilish irony to be admired,
for verse most often misunderstood,
philosopher and virtuoso to a tone-deaf audience.
Camus concluded Sisyphus
was happy with his lot in life,
but a poet continues to paint strange landscapes,
never content with color schemes,
ever niggling for that undiscovered pastel.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
but still i reached out and spoke
words that would
      carry themselves
                across the driest of deserts;
words that would
                 light
the darkest of midnight jungles,
                        for you,
i have reached out and spoke
into Your deafened ears,
all the while You sit at the picnic bench watching automobiles
                                                      speed by.
You mumble for a moment,
And pretend to be assuring.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
with different ideas despite
these familiar glances in silence
          deafened
by elementary school bells.

i suppose we were aware,
               at least
full of apprehension.
but all the hollow words you sang
                           sprung forth
             like ectoplasm,
most haunting,
leaving me with something i’d never shake.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
i’ve yet to see him with heart in hand,
but as i watch You saunter there,
                                 from my sunset,
i see him.
he in his veil and cape, and
i can’t help but wonder,

“would it have been worthwhile”

to strip the ground of the foundation we poured,
built upon transparent, adamant stone and
   raised
on the blocks
of the Poets of Old.

“would it have been worth it, after all”


we’re in different worlds, You and i,
after the plans and promises of night,
the discussions of Cummings
              over midnight wine,
and the times we smoked the pipe together.

“would it have been worth it, after all”

With all the senseless pain of the world
dancing within the corridors of the flooded mind,
running… no,
            gushing
       like the torrential
      mud in a flooded mine.
and all the rumination of nuances that leave me wondering if i speak too truthfully.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
with miles and miles of endless wonder

             between us

that ***** the air from the room
                             dry,
and finally,
finally, all the truth,
or whatever it’s called,
all the hope,
and all the rest of life
is ****** from the environment as You leave
                 before standing.

we’re in different worlds, you and I,
and so I’ll say I always knew.

each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.

when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,

when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,

when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,

out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day

when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.

when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.

the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.

i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
  preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
  the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
  into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
  i cannot reach for.

when it is time all of this,
    mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
  and not a sign of your colour
   will scream pain like a tortured vandal.

PANIC ATTACKS ARE FUN!


Ayad Gharbawi


A waterless feast for the thirsty
Torturers
Struggling to restrain their base Infamy
Hungry ravenous ******* eyes
Smiling grotesquely
At their Prey
Wingless birds
The nightmare is still swirling in its
Intensity
Variations of horror
And perpetual stalking fear
Shaking eyeballs
Blurring visions
Colours far too strong
Piercing
Sweating inside
Palpitating heart
Driest mouth
Piercing
Beyond any reason
Pointlessly running
From the excessively, maniacal seething Fear
Never ending
The deformed visions deepen
Yet disconnecting themselves
From my shaking Self
Withering my ‘I’
I see a threatening ugliness staring at me
I know
I am victimized
How can I get out of this?
Filthy stench of a greasy pit!
Where are the maps?
The guidelines?
Where are the physicians?
Promoting this vicious
Civilization
That I do swear
Is even sicker than I am
For you have left us all
Stranded
Surrounded
In a surreally insane No Man’s Land

Oh, how strange the day
That casts a shadow on my grave
That I have dug in wickedness
Through the flesh I have praised

I've found the woe in all of this
Yet in darkness I bathe my bones
While I chain my neck to sins
I stubbornly refuse to turn against

Like a sweet apple from a tree
I lust for the succulent taste
Of a fleeting happiness of addiction
That grasps my veins like ******

I've bonded myself to all the lies
That I  have whispered to my soul
Each night as I stared into the stars
And drifted to the hell inside my mind

But in this place I found an angel
That defended the death I claimed
And I, like the vulnerable sheep
Drank the words of all she said

Like a glutinous fool I was quenched
Until the morning came again
And I woke upon the driest desert
My soul shriveled to nothingness

Yet I find somewhere within my spirit
To fight against every ounce of me
That keeps running to false desires
In hopes to find the freedom I yearn

I plead to be crippled from head to toe
To fall on my knees for eternity
Until I'm bruised and broken
And my heart can breathe again

When my lungs are filled with joy
That sings mellifluously throughout
And my eyes burn with passion
Ignited by the purest of light

And like an earthquake on land
May my spirit be shaken violently
Until the day I'm alive again
Where my mind will blossom

Like a field of flowers in the spring
Where the birds hum their beauty
And my thoughts are silenced
While my flesh dances like the bees


Oh, how beautiful this day will be
When winter is quelled by the sun
And every life is flourishing
In the Truth that we all had lost

The Walk

I got red clay and grass on my feet today in the land of the Navaho it seemed I channeled one of their
Braves it seemed my eyes grew stronger the buttes and mesas the southwest had on familiar adoring that
flows with a fluidity in the driest land yet still the streaming it breaks free and flows down to the
Valley then it arrests the high distant peaks like your eyes become the bow shooting at the target straight
And true with speed it passes stationary objects it brings them to intensified life they are passed in a whirl
No longer are they so fixed as they were nothing now they enliven my heart it beats faster with the joy they
Possess magic it lies in depths of tree and scrub it appears as a wild and crazed painter of the caliber of
Van Gogh started at a certain point definitely he favored red as his base color then with differing shades
Of green he cloaked this thermal world it would be uniquely different a somber invitation to a feast at first
Glance seemingly a hard pronounced edge but a people with dark red to brown skin walked into this
World they put the finish to perfect with indigo as their primary color of dress what living moods now
Stand out against the red terrain singularly or as a tribe they clashed with this scenic land earth and sky
Had a joining place among a people that were formable there power they were educated not by
Scholarly universities but by rock streams trees and from creatures that learned to survive in a hostile
Environment it’s interesting to note that one of our most robust presidents an easterner when his wife
And mother died within days of one another Teddy Roosevelt chose the west as the place to seek
Healing for his devastated life the rest of his life is a pretty good testament to this place and it’s curative
Powers not bad for a rocky dry land thought by most to be worthless just an observation of one whom
Walked in the paths of a rich diverse and proud people I think my Cherokee grandmother would be
Proud she always talked about where we would go she took a detour and went to heaven instead in the
Meantime I will do the earth side adventures for the both of us

Anticipation spans the season
Gone so fast with just a trace
You leave no rhyme nor reason
Off you fly with cold malice.

Even the driest patch of grass
Restores its former chloroplasts
Bright green trees begin to fade
Your legacy is leaving.

Splash, the constant drumming
Sets the tempo and transition
Swap the pastels for pantones
Go indoors and reposition.

Not one to miss a queue
This rain was built to last
The whipping winds harmonise
Like blowing over hollow glass.

The interval is all but over
The show yet to be recast
Fly in the white cliffs above
The Dover shore blends at last.

The tapping of rain becomes a thud
As the treetop leaves lose their colour
Gales whip up - down empty streets
The people crowd indoors in horror.

Fearsome is the cold and wet
Now that joy and happiness has passed
Regale stories of the Summer
And hope that winter retreats as fast.

Some days,
I'll be waiting outside
On the street corners

Carrying nothing but
An umbrella and wearing
Nothing but the toughest,
Driest, warmest clothes
I have.

And only on those days
When I am ready for the
Rain to fall

Does the rising, shrouded sun
In all her yellow-white
Glory decide to come out
And smile.

Fury I wear like a slinky fox stole
whose beady little eyes look up at me in a deathly calm,
hanging loose around my boney neck.
Anger I hang like the Christmas star
blinking on to illuminate the dark with it's yellow hue
On.
         anger yellow.
Off
         anger black
Regret I type into block and wide letters
resembling the words like black ninja stars
hurtling, hurtling i throw them
with precision...returning the hurt- to your tiny -ling heart.
Black and White and Read all over you,
Blue, man. So blue
and that deep purple hue... the healing rainbow, black and blue
and green and grief, is it not so?
Oh, grief, oh fire of grief
burning the driest kindling that is hope, that is faith.
I am tissue paper flowers on the float in the parade
I am tissue paper flowers, that bloom until it rains.
And I'll tuck my indignation and I'll shove my righteousness
down deep into my pockets
(such a shame you never darned that hole)
Bellow.  Bellow out my rage
Wrap it in a shiny box, and tie it with a silky bow...
the gift of
knowing all the blackness
festering inside.
The gift of knowing  how loud the mother's howl can sound.
I learn the curves of the drive away,
I learn the legs that will take me to run.
Anger,
I am born of this, today.
Tomorrow? Ill be born of these ash as all that is good begins and begins again.

sahn
8/25/14

all spaces pulse in tight air and silent gasps and you’ve developed claustrophobia in the length of an hour. increased in his presence, all the lights have become interrogants

your ears pop more than once to disappear maybe probably. the hardening of your compact inner skin is about to crumble in the hollows of your skull and bleed into the voice always being there had you not chosen to tune in to sell out to the only show in town

you wanted to be abandoned but not like this

by some magic you continue to accidentally ***** yourself while he’s holding you holding yourself and you try to stiffen your limbs into thinking they can make hairs stand on end this way probably maybe when you grind your teeth into a fine, damp powder

and when all you need is water

sapping the gruff heat from out the driest desert patches of skin and lifting your overly long hair off away from its tired hang off the skull and you can only believe this now for until

you’re back again

the degrees climb up the walls and stench the room stale with the sweat you ache

he aches differently

your fists red and clammy like little bawling snot toddler fists and you are four again
fourteen forty times and your fists will give up soon but

your fingernails have disappeared into your skin and his breath is very loud over your shoulder right in the ear whistling icy and there is bittersweetness stilling under your tongue

you want to cough to sneeze to explode to make your whole self vanish

One day, we will grow out of the soil
Chasing the Sun, seeking the same light, the same warmth
Standing through storms and maintaining posture during dearth of rain

and when autumn brings the strongest gusts
We will not be ripped

One day, we will float in the same wind
Towards the same sea
Spreading throughout neighboring fields

and when the driest of winters comes
We will persist

One harvest
Compatible seeds

the kind that punch deep in your stomach so violently that you're left with the pungent taste of bile in the driest corners of your mouth

the kind that leave lies behind, squeezing between your teeth in a slimy struggle to the open air. you could try stuffing them back inside, utilizing all of your strength and willpower but to no avail, they push their way through, infecting you with self-deprecation and loathing and the intense desire to please.

or it'll push back further toward the root of your throat and stuff you full of hatred until you're choking and can't take a single breath. no matter the case, words are dangerous, words are fire, and you could be a very regretful soul pitifully soon if one day you suddenly decide to trifle with them.

this love is not a game, but a battle, a war, and it is far too easy to get stuck on the losing side.