Pain unearned but still deserved
Served up as dessert
By her earthier friends
Laughing at her crying back
As she stumbles blindly home.

Ignorance is a crime
And sweet little puppies die all the time
But what makes them smile for a moment
Places her in confoundment
So sweet and remorseful
She takes her own life.

Bullies on the steps
Bullies on the curb
******* punks on the bus
Unexplained learning curves.

People are animals
Who can do better
If they want and are able
And not just something in the middle.

I wish she'd known me
Before she knew you
I can see you from miles away
She never understood public schools.

She needed an honest education
Never the misfired humiliation
But the streets run with rats
A fact we'll never get past.

Is social equality such an uneven street
That the fanciest of shoes might stumble
And the beasts ferociously feed?

A wake and a vigil
Candles burned for as long as boredom can stand
School bells ring
And it's business as usual.

~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?

Yet, here I am.

Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?

This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.

And therein lies the hidden meaning.

But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.

Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.

And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.

This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.

Here I find closure by opening a book.
~

She moves with such fluidity in your atmosphere draping herself like sheer satin, elegantly etherial...
I feel like cotton underpants
My mouth heavy with words that refuse to reach for air and tie my tongue down and crowd around my throat
My foot steps are heavier, earthier,  than her tip toe grace
Elegant hands drape so adorningly over your shoulders
Her eyes dance with depth
her lips sing with spirited conversation
Mine a steady and constant gaze deep and unyielding
with lips given to sullenness,
And still you gravitate towards me as if she didn't exist

Earthier tones daub him/her...stuck upon their backs, arms overhanging a plinth.
On opposing ends, as the gnarled nubs of a broken olive branch--
forsworn to polarity, they extend a foot upon each other's fig leaf.
Mid the dead of adroit forestry, the more they think into silence a meandering blood reads them.
Naked not because they've forgotten clothes to two as one...just laying there to recall something--the bed's become a plinth, art implores make of, break of.
They just lay there, as if violently spit from the egg-shell
white of dashed ******, blank love letter.
Cigarettes rise...freeze for a bit, then rest at their sides--smoke cut up with endemic tension.
They could say something to get out of this...but they don't.

Nakedly bottled.
Capturing bursting seasons
here and now.

Life, delicate in its notes,  
the top notes,
lithe as youth,
citrus and bloom,  
ever briefly,
recondite pleasure,
a suppliance of time
a rush that fades away.  

Heart notes,
the flesh of our days, unfold—  
warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath.

In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk.  

Sultry as the scent may have lingered,
flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair
the base notes come,
the earthier tones,  
amber and resin,
heavier on the air,  
decays a final wisp
until faint on the skin.

A memory is born.