A beautiful unusual looking feather fell to the ground
It was black, gray and white
It was in perfect condition
It was sitting in between the leaves that had fallen from the trees
Fall had arrived

A small boy was walking home
He found the feather sitting on the ground
He picked it up to look at it
To save it he took one of his school books out from his backpack
He opened the book and put the feather in between the pages and closed the book for safe keeping

He then put the book back into his backpack and continued on his way home
Once he got inside his house, he took out the feather and showed it to his mother

She looked at it and told him to show it to his father when he got home from work

The boy then went upstairs to his room
He put his backpack down on the chair by his desk and took out the book to look at the feather once again

It was absolutely beautiful
He had never seen anything like it
He felt like he had found a treasure
He was tired and wanted to rest
So he put the feather away and took a nap till his father arrived

While he slept the feather opened the book and stood up on one end
It started to turn slowly
As it turned gold sparkles covered the feather glistening in the light
It was pure magic

The feather then went back into the book and closed it
When the boy awoke his father had come home
He grabbed the book with the feather to show his father
His father was an historian
While his father studied it
He walked into his study to find a book on the book shelf
The boy followed his father

The boys father found the book and brought it down from the shelf
It was a very old book with a special leather red cover and gold edged pages

The father looked up the feather and discovered that it had belonged to the head dress  of a former Native American chief named Temacuah. It was magical and also had protective powers

The feather would release its magic only when it was owned by the right person. Otherwise it looked like any other feather

While they were doing their research the feather stood up again on one end and started turning  ever so slowly
As it did, the gold specks on it glistened once again
It was beautiful

The boys father knew this had only happened because his son was the correct owner

They also found out that the feather was very old
Several thousand years old
Yet it showed no age
It was perfect
They had found true magic
They felt blessed

She told me often when I was six, seven eight,nine and even ten that she used to read books, newspapers, journals (probably even shampoo labels), anything at all, every morning as she carries a breathing lump in her tummy—me. Growing up into a pensive, serious child,  my compounding curiosity was indulged with her providing a plethora of books. From giant, intimidating encyclopedias (I could barely understand but read on,still) to old, dusty fiction paperbacks to her interest in Greek mythology, she never ran out of things to tell me. How she told in a week the story of Goldilocks earning the rage of the three bears  and how I memorized it by ear when I was three or four, recited it in front of a throng of older kids in school. How her eyes glistened at that moment (I could not tell) but in retelling everything, her voice glows with just a bit of pride. She fed me fairy tales and in soaking in their magic, I found a dreamer in myself. I've always been a little different from other kids. A little too curious, precocious, mature, head in the clouds which I have maintained until now. She excitedly told me the story of how Thumbelina in her smallness had a larger than life adventure. How the last pig survived the wolf's bullying through his cleverness. How red riding hood looked dainty and pretty in her red cape. Or how tasty looking  her presents to grandma were. She read them all—every night—tirelessly as I held the warm milk I hated with all my naive heart at that time. I started writing for the school paper, eventually as a news and features writer. I did a lot of spoken poetry, orations, storytelling and speeches (mostly in school and some events) .Mom was in front row seats in all the writing and literary competitions I went to. And together with dad, they shut off the doubtful voices in my head real good.

I stopped writing in high school—when I was twelve. And for a long time, I wandered aimlessly with myself. To make matters worse, I was plagued with nightmares and an extreme sleep paralysis condition that heightened my fears. I often seriously thought I would die in my sleep. I totally got wrapped by my problems and forgot about writing and never got the chance to ask mom how she felt about that. But life paced itself differently when I was fifteen. One crazy dream and an insight in the shower later  and I began writing again. It was like I came from the bottom of a dry, dark well and someone wedged me with a rope back into light. I never looked back down the well, ever.

In all this history and flair for the literary, I go back to the fondness of the days and nights when mom was also my favorite storyteller who somehow put me in this direction, unknowingly. Now that I think about it, I always had an affinity with words. Like birds with the wind, like painters with their brushes. It comes as natural as breathing for me—maybe I should feel happy about that. Behind that deep connection was my mom and her stories that awakened my inner dreamer. One day, I hope to stack all the poems and stories, all the words I have ever written (good or bad) and hand it to her. Just like how she handed me this dream. I'd like to tell her I never stopped writing and probably never will. And in the very first page of that compilation, signed with my slanted signature are the words—*
I OWE IT ALL TO YOU, MOM, THANKS!

-Alex

Precariously balanced on the back half of a metal chair,
Tipping somewhere between stability and pain,
Sat the man.
Olive skin, thick black hair,
Eyes the color of the finest hazlenuts money could buy.
From the first glance, one could tell that he had known suffering,
Poverty, despair.
His hungry eyes, weathered hands, and beaten shoes could tell no lies,
Though he was half-shrouded by the sweet smoke which he breathed.
Yet he seemed so relaxed and content,
Prepared to take whatever might be hurled at him next.
He asked me if I would like a puff.
"It make you to relax, miss."
The words rolled off of his tongue like a Jewish cantor's song.
"No, but thank you."
His hazelnut eyes glistened in the impending dusk,
Bare hands wringing themselves.
Was he nervous?
He began to fidget with his collared work shirt,
Shorts sleeves thin from wear,
As if he were afraid to say anything else.
"Well, I best be going now. It was a pleasure talking to you, sir."
I stood up and continued to walk back down the street.
I thought of the exotic man,
The way he looked and what he wore.
I thought, "Why would he wear that in December?"
I did not need to ask myself.

demon in the bathroom mirror
last rock of crystal went missing
bulging eyes in my reflection
I didn’t like that
i couldn’t find crystal but i don’t ask
those guys actually saved my life.
two hours to billings, montana and the
prairie grass glistened in the
last minute Sunday morning sunlight
thanksgiving day drive.

designer machete and the wineberries
broken shabbat demarcation line
and i tried yet again to perform a task
to completion without getting distracted
screaming from the bathroom

‘i can’t hit a vein! I can’t hit a vein!’
water in the rig
miss crystal swimming in mine
Christ in the Cosmos
two plantains on the kitchen island in
a town house on west orange.
no man is an island
but I pretended that i was so
i could finally climb the double helix home.

i  can’t be creative if i’m always in
a mad rush.
‘Prove to me your value! Justify your being here,
can you see me? Why can’t anyone see me?
how about now?’
tongue caught in a snare
pestilence in the mason jar
smoked paprika in the finish
water in the rig
‘Jordan? Was there even anything in here?’

i used to lay prostrate on the
couch
ad infinitum.
one thing they don’t tell you is that when
you’re dope sick you have to take
a giant **** about every five minutes.
the free cable in the apartment complex
actually saved my life.
furniture - mid century modern -
had to let it go.
hadn’t really listened to music in 18 months
besides pop country radio stations
‘i got that summertime, summertime sadness’
ad infinitum.
somehow I had decent pair of headphones and
a small, black verizon smartphone circa July 2013.
‘do what you want, what you want with my body…’
Lady Gaga actually saved my life that day.

demon in the ikea medicine cabinet mirror
giant rock of crystal
missing
water in the rig
‘was there even anything in there?!?!?!’
the mirror reflected back to me a stranger’s eyes
mirror is another name for a stranger's eyes.
i tabernacled in the high desert plains,
Sheridan, Wyoming - powder river country.

i felt the God-force emerge yesterday
up and outward from deep within my belly.
but today i’m fussing over straw-men
in plaster-of-paris suits
and i ate tortured beef at a
diner in Leesport, PA
and I can’t turn back into the man I was
no matter how hard I try.

so now I sit before
the most holy apostle St. Jude
located at Our Lady of Fatima Grotto
across the street from Kings College, Wilkes-Barre, PA.
‘The quickest way to Hell are the temptations of the flesh, exclamation point.’
i came here to reclaim my value but
i can’t seem to find it anywhere.

i keep getting flashbacks of the water in the rig
and the screaming from the bathroom and
if i didn’t tell somebody about this i was probably
going to *****.

3 cheers for the Black Madonna and
the big surrender.
i’ve swallowed so many shadows by now
that i don’t recognize myself in the mirror
or in your eyes.
but my body is a christmas tree and
from the branches i hang
plastic tinsel and
crystals and
broken timing chains
and a cedar wood mala.

I see that Christ is always pointing to
his sacred heart
but no one ever told me that
the anahata chakra had a back door.
no wonder sometimes I feel like i’m a
hydrogen bomb welded inside a lead casket.
someone open the ******* door and
let some light in.

the sun doesn’t rise from the west
and there is no rest for the weary and
to this day I act like that wasn’t only
water in the rig.

Nadine was naïve when she came to me,
So innocent, fresh and sublime,
I found that I had to pinch myself
When she told me she was mine.
She was barely out of her teens back then
While I was over the hill,
She hadn’t a toe in the water then,
But I had been through the mill.

Her gentle face was a study in grace
And her eyes had sparkled blue,
Her hair like a field of waving corn
And her lips had glistened dew,
Her ******* were fresh, pushed under her dress
And her hips a promised world,
I’d watch her sway as she’d drift my way
This seductive, sensuous girl.

I’d lie on the bed after making love
And I’d watch her rise and move,
She’d pose for me in her poetry
Like a picture, hung in the Louvre.
She was never ashamed of her body then
Though she lent it just to me,
The rest of the world was missing out,
It was pure idolatry.

I’d take her walking to see the sites
Where culture lurked in the gloom,
And art then captured her simple heart
As we’d go from room to room,
Rubens, Goya and Cabanel,
Titian, Goya, Courbet,
She said, ‘I want to be seen like that,
Preserved in a youthful way.’

We met the sculptor, Matthias Krohn
At a gallery in Berlin,
His mouth fell open to see Nadine
With her pale and perfect skin.
‘You have a goddess, my friend,’ he said,
‘I must capture her in stone!’
I said, ‘Can I come along and watch?’
‘I must work with her alone.’

I’d drop Nadine at his studio
Each day, and she’d stay ‘til four,
I’d ask her how it was going, and
She’d shrug, wouldn’t tell me more.
‘The sculpture’s facing away from me
I won’t see it ‘til it’s done.’
I could tell by the downcast look of her
That it wasn’t really fun.

‘It’s cold, it gets very cold in there,’
She said, when a month had gone
And that was the first time that I knew
She was posed, no clothing on.
‘I thought he would drape your figure there,
In something filmy, like lawn,
‘I told him I wanted the world to see me
Naked as I was born.’

The months went on, there was something wrong
The sparkle had gone from her eye,
The hair that had been like waving corn
Was now just brittle and dry,
Her lips were pursed in a moody line,
No longer glistened with dew,
I said, ‘Am I doing something wrong…’
‘It’s nothing to do with you!’

I went on the final day with her,
Matthias ushered us in,
‘You’ve come for my greatest masterpiece,’
But all I could see was sin.
The eyes were cynical, looking down,
The lips were curled in contempt,
The ******* were pert like a blatant flirt
Who basked in her element.

I took one look at the parted legs
And reached for my girl, Nadine,
The tears were streaming along her cheeks,
‘You’ve made me appear unclean!’
Matthias shrugged as she rushed on out,
‘It’s true to the girl I saw.’
‘Your evil eyes must have told you lies,
You’ve turned Nadine to a *****!’

She never came back to our home again,
She wandered the streets in shame,
I tried to find her, to track her down
But I heard she was on the game.
I saw her last, get into a car,
Her lips were curled in contempt,
Her hair was brittle, like faded straw
But she looked in her element!

David Lewis Paget

I woke up this morning at nine am
and traveled through all of Switzerland,
it was breathtaking.
Snow painted the mountains white while the trees tops colored the hills  
with speckles of gold.
Ground level,
the grass glistened in neon green hues. Everything was stunning,
everything was chilled.
I thought of you again today.
I saw the color of your eyes
Flickering through the sunlit trees.
I'm exhausted.
But the colors of maroon and umber
Dance by my vessel.
Unaware of their angles and curves.
Be weary of those who adore
The spirit of Autumn.
The frosted noses,
Or hot cinnamon flavored wine.
I climbed the astrological clock.
I spray painted the Lennon Wall.
I fell in love with you,
Actually I always was.
Pieces of me are ripped
And scattered across the globe.
I'm a paper plane,
Calculated to the pressure point.
I miss the feel of the cold air,
And the skin on your stomach.
Move forward free spirit,
**** the dysphoria,
And learn to be alive for once.

We have our timezones.
You have lit my nights
with oil lamps,
and scribbled words,
dripping ink,
bright blue circular, circumventing words.

I have glistened your days,
with sunshine,
and the smell of rain,
with sprinkles of cool
breeze showering on you.

My candles and rays,
are tip toeing out of sight,
I fall short of noticing them,
(partly because work kills me)
but more so,
because you have made
them seamless,
and thriving.

My pages,
do not boast of love,
or affection,
or any of that miserable
writing,
they screams passion,
they rip into anger
and courage,
belief,
belief you sewed into me,
with your gentle hands,
fidgeting and seeking.

And your eyes,
do not burn from the sunshine,
they glow,
and stare into the depths,
I see in you.
I know you hate the rain,
so mine doesn’t actually come down on you,
it lingers with its scent teasing you.
The cold breeze doesn’t
suffocate your breath,
it travels through
your body- within your veins,
it is breath.

We have our timezones,
but we meet at the horizon.

There was ink in his mouth and it was Monday morning, doomsday morning.
The comparison of both these seemingly random attributes could mean nothing at all
to anybody else but they came hand in hand for a man that always walked with his shoes untied
and while the rest of the world chewed tobacco; he chewed cinnamon sticks that he would grind
to a fine powder in his mouth spitting it out at nearby ant mounds and by the nests of bumblebees.
This nomad’s of nobody’s business would wander the streets of his hated town, the world’s armpit, the city of fire and angels and whatever the hell else.
He would walk Pico Boulevard all the way to Wilshire Ave., towards Venice and then crookedly stumbling to Van Nuys but he didn’t know his bus routes and his mind was always swarmed by imaginary bugs that he picked up from old soda cans.
What he loved most of all was stopping by the bridges of highways and looking all the way down to
the cars below swimming past in a hurry; the sky dark blue and the headlights like light bulbs
almost running out of their batteries. He saw this as cathartic as most people saw sunsets or a pianist
shaking his head violently to his own tune and it was true. This simple man was born, some say, out of dust, car exhaust and the lost ID cards of peoples’ whose wallets were stolen. However intriguing this could be it wasn’t so.  He was born in a hospital in Chinatown and his mother had gold teeth that glistened whenever she drank too much and how often they shone.
You see, I knew this man long ago when my hair cascaded down my back in fine strokes and my lungs
weren’t yet tired from the things I chose to inhale. For all my purposes, this was the only person I wanted to talk about, to spit and screech whenever I heard his name and I didn’t even exactly know his name; The poor imbecile. He went by different pseudonyms and I suppose I did too but I had a name that most knew. Carmen and Leopold. They chose to remember it because it rolled off, it clawed at your teeth as you said it.
But Monday mornings were a specialty. It meant that he could go and see his brother who lived across town, the one who sang at fancy pubs and refined restaurants, where people didn’t have to yell to admire you, but slowly clapped, a soft hum in a room where everyone understands and doesn’t have to make up for it in the way they whistle your name. He always shook his head at this profession.
“You’re an animal to these people, an exhibit they can safely see from their auditoriums and then go to sleep without having to take you home. Your last hurrah will come soon and then what will you do?”
He didn’t understand Leopold’s hostility. This art he was drawn to. This voice that could have been
given to anybody but it was given to him. Deep down he knew he would never be a big star, he would never leave the place where he born. He would die close to where he went to elementary school and what a big sham, the whole big world so big and he would never see it. Never unfold, instead slowly
crumble like the crust of cakes he stared at through shopping windows.

My son was six, the day we had to hear
The doctor tell us, he wouldn’t make it to the next year

He didn’t understand, and we didn’t know what to say
All we could tell him, was it was going to be okay

Our son loved Christmas, and the entire Christmas season

So we got an idea, the only one we could reason
We knew that this, would be the last thing he’d remember

So what if we turned June, back into December
Give him one last time, give him one last Christmas

Just to let him know, what a joy he had given us
We’d tell him a lie, and we’d make him believe it

It would be a task, but we’d have to achieve it
We sat him down, and told him the news

His eyes got really big, as he seemed to be confused

We told him that Santa, thought June would be better

So he better get started, on writing his letter
Later I walked down our street, talking to every neighbor

Asking each one, if they could do us a favor
Just for a month, could they put up all their lights

And then turn them on, for a few hours every night
I even offered, to do the work myself
Even if the person, wouldn’t offer me their help

Yet later that night, I heard my son cry
And then he told me, he didn’t want to die

So I reassured him, as he laid there in my arms
That God would protect him, and keep him safe from harm

Then I asked him, what was the thing he wanted most
As he wiped away a tear, he said he didn’t know

I didn’t sleep that night, not even a wink
Living without my son, was the only thought I could think

The next day, I got on the phone to make a call
To learn who plays Santa, every year down at the mall

Since we couldn’t visit Santa, and our options were slim
I knew that all I could do, was bring Santa to him

That night we watched movies, while we did little crafts
It was the first time in a while, I’d seen my son laugh

One of the movies, talked about angels getting wings
As everyone in town, cheerfully singed

My son then asked me, would he get to be an angel
My wife left the room, the question was too painful

I told him yes, and with that I promised
He then smiled, because he knew I was honest
The next few days, we’re a bit tough

His poor little body, had almost had enough
As I arrived home, and got out of my car
I saw a man down the street, putting up a tree in his yard

I knew my son was weak, and wouldn’t want to go outside
So I told him it was snowing, not proud that I had lied

I saw him smile, as he went back to sleep
Then I turned off his light, in the darkness I would weep

The next night we decided, to put up our tree
The three of us, my son, my wife and me
We decorated it, with ornaments and tinsel

I lifted up my son, as at the top he placed our angel
We wrapped it in lights, his favorite color of yellow

Then sat in the darkness, entranced by the glow
It was strange for sure, my wife and I thought
But this had more value, than any gift that could be bought

Next day I called a man, who owned a Santa suit
When I told him the story, not for a second did he dispute

He said he’d come by, and pay my son a visit
And when he knocked on our door, I playfully yelled, “Who is it?”

He walked inside, as my son was sitting in my chair
My son couldn’t say a word, all he could do was stare

I knew he wanted to cheer, he just didn’t have the strength
Yet he just smiled, with a wide ear to ear length

“**-**-**”, said the jolly old man
“You must be Johnny”, as he held out his hand

“Yes, that’s me.”, my boy softly said
Santa removed his hat, exposing the silver locks upon his head

“I heard from my elf, that you wanted us to meet”
Santa said, as he kneeled at my son’s feet

“I wrote you a letter”, my son said nervously
“Well, I’d love to read it”, Santa said with complete certainty

My wife then reached out, and handed Santa the note
As he read it, he seemed to get a tickle in his throat

He then looked at me, but I hadn’t yet read it
He had a look in his eyes, as if I might dread it

Santa passed me the letter, and I got my answer
I then read the words, “Santa please fix my cancer.”

My son wanted nothing, except the ability to live
However I knew that was a gift, even Santa couldn’t give

Santa gave him a hug, and then said goodbye
As he left I saw a tear, welling up in his eyes

“Santa will help me, won’t he dad?”
I said “I’m sure he will”, with everything I had

Nothing else was said, he just looked so relieved
He looked so sure, I knew it was something he believed

I carried him to bed, and there quietly he laid
As I prayed that his dreams, would carry him away

The next night, though the air was very heavy
I loaded him in his wagon, and asked if he was ready

I had another surprise, one that might lift his spirit
The smile on his face, said he was excited to hear it

As we made our way, out onto the rocky concrete
The night was lit, with the glow of lights on our street

Nearly every house, had put up their Christmas decor
His heart carried so much joy, I doubt it could take anymore

His eyes glistened, in the twinkle of red and green
It was like something, that my eyes had never seen

I never walked as slow, as I did then
Hoping that this moment, would somehow never end

He pointed and stared, and sat there in amazement
As together we traveled, down the stretch of neon pavement

A few neighbors, gave us a wave from their porch
As if to tell my son, he had their support

Then he asked, “Dad, is this all just for me?”
I tried to look confused, in a way that he could see

I then asked him, “What do you mean?”
He said that it was weird, that there was nobody else to be seen

There were no other people, no cars lined in a row
Didn’t they hear it was Christmas, why didn’t they know?

I didn’t want to lie again, so I told him the truth
So I told him, “Yes son, this is all just for you.”

“But why?” He asked, as I stopped pulling the wagon
He didn’t understand, his mind couldn’t imagine

“Because”, I said, “they all wanted to.”
“They heard you were sick, and it was the least that they could do”

When we got home, I took my son to bed
Then on his pillow, he softly laid his head

He then told me, “Dad, I think I’m ready to leave”
I said, “But you can’t, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

He just smiled, as I pulled the covers up to his chin
He then closed his eyes, eyes he’d never open again

It’s been thirty years, since I’ve last seen my son
Though the fight was hard, it was a fight that he had won

I still miss my son, and I know I’ll see him soon
And every summer since, we celebrate our Christmas in June

The pool glistened
in wet moonlight,
wearing a  haze
like in an ***** eater's vision.
the deep blue waters
that lay still
has something to tell
one would think,
he was glad to see
such clear water,
that reminded him
something vague

"Answer my questions"
from the pool intoned a voice
"before stepping in to this water,
your ablution can wait a bit,
would you like to taste
this water, and find out
its origin, if you could, then step in"
"Why not" he replied with confidence,
"I am enamored by this sight,
such loveliness makes one
forget pain of every kind
now, let me know it a little better"
when his tongue touched
the water just once, a flash
struck,  remembrance came
rushing towards him like
the curse of  tsunami waves,

her pearly tears it were,  collected
on its own, for many years.
he sat by the pool, guilt ridden
torn apart by grief, cruel vultures,
till the moment his eyes fully dried,
he was let out from the house of pain.

here it comes
the end is nigh
a crooning crow
patrols the sky
the lake reflects
a crescent moon
as god's old land
lay now in ruin

and were the world
lay now ahead
oh sleeping distance
where to tread
where to run
or where to hide
as life distorted
creeps through behind

battered thought
upon cleansed sin
we gaze in awe
her benevolence
eternal rise
pink and grey
oh conflicting beauty
lead us astray

wanderlust turn
thought to dust
bleeding greed
turn will to must
charging future
twist my words
feed on bone
as preyless birds

a ****** of crows
now they coo
our withering souls
long overdue
the glistened waters
reflect dark clouds
he comes to reap
we must avow

Hello Rose, I longed to feel you,
Love is a curious thing,

He says he loves the flower,
but he plucks it, out of its roots he takes it,
Then he places it in an empty vase,
Pouring the waters of life on a day to day base,

But they say the wildest flowers have the most thorns,
I felt the bites and the things, into my skin morph,

I paused, and cried with my face beneath the sands,
"If that is the price I have to pay,
Then as God as my witness, I have no qualms"
This is all I'll ever be, a sacrificial lamb,

They say plants don't scream when they die,
Your tears glistened deep where they were,
But the sound I heard wasn't that,

It was the fact that perhaps the moment in fact,
That there our love died and didn't remain intact,
Where doubt filled me, and you, I couldn't outlast,

I broke the walls, I tried to,
But in the end, the higher the climb,
The harder I fell,

I don't blame you for what you did to me honey,
Because even now, I cherish every one of your thorns,
Life isn't a fairytale, I've had ones of my own,

So let me be the one to say this:
If you leave, be wild and free,
And if you again choose me,
then I kiss the hands that killed me,
And may from the ashes it resurrects me.

Because Rose, you don't deserve a second glance,
You are a treasure, around you I felt I wanted to dance.

Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight:
but all things are naked and opened
unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.*

Hebrews 4:13

When first I met you, girly-girl
you gave my hormones quite a whirl
believing I had found the pearl, Porneia…

The shell was richer than your charm
assuring me you meant no harm
my stroke of luck: you clasped my arm, Porneia.

You called me with that sultry voice
and made me think I had no choice, Porneia.

You glistened in a fantasy
of pixillating pink HD
your flesh tone’s ever-changing hue
sure made me want to do it to
that someone just beyond my view, Porneia.

I emptied every magazine
in search of angles yet unseen.
The angels fell upon my screen, Porneia.

More I tasted, more I needed –
yet the bed remained unseeded
waiting for your rose to bloom
recurring passions to resume
in contemplation of your womb, Porneia.

Exposed: your jaded artifice,
that bright celestial orifice,
gynecologic precipice:  Porneia.

I took you for a worldly muse
dead mistress of the thousand views;
my carnal will could not refuse,  Porneia.
With your deceit I came to grips;
you represent true love’s eclipse –
the spurt of passion died in drips, Porneia.

Alas, our book of love must end.
The final chapter’s pages bend;
the bookmarks, now deleted, send
each one, a flower to your  grave.
My sinful soul you could not save, Porneia.

Oh what has come between us princess?
Now your rare allure evinces
fearful alarm, the urge to flee –
our love was never meant to be.
Thus ends it all twixt me and thee, Porneia.

Growing up,
My father warned me
About many things.

But he never warned me
To stay away from brown eyes
That glistened when she smiled
Or freckles that only appeared along her
Cheeks in the sun.

He never warned me that I could become
Hooked
On a person so easily.

That I could,
And I would
Do anything for her happiness
Even if that meant
Destroying
Myself.

He never warned me that falling in love
Could be painful,
One-sided
Cruel.

He never warned me for the rejection,
The thoughts
Of never being enough.
The nights
Of drinking
Until passing out
On the bathroom floor.

He never warned me that a person could love
You one day and
Change  
Their mind
The next.

But in defense of my father  

I don't think anyone
Could have warned me
About the dangers
Of falling in love with
Her.

A light that once glistened
Fade paler to dim
A love that once glowed
Sent ashes to wind
Some surprises arrive
Not wrapped as a gift
On the seas of harshness
A heart set adrift

the wet coconut leaves
glistened in the moonlight
Telling stories of the life
I once lived
the sea calls me
To the deep
The wind sings me to sleep
only to dance under the moonlight in blissful dreams


i dove in the glistening ocean
alive at night
breath in deep, the salty air
oh what precious  delight

down to where the clams open
and glowing fishes live
i find my home now
i finish my trip

#death #of #a #star

His eyes glistened, deep and dark.
An expression so bleak.
I've had those eyes before, it left a mark.
So I know he feels incomplete.

I see the scars even though they're gone.
Battle wounds, battling yourself and the world.
You're broken, but you have done no wrong.
And you begin to trust this broken girl.

We sit and talk.
Not of hopes and dreams.
Of the nightmares that stalk.
Of those demon beings.

Until the day I fell in love.
You let me get too deep in those blue eyes.
Blue...
Not dark...
That is the start of my demise.

With every kiss
And every touch
Do you believe in friendship?

With every bite
And every scratch
Do you believe in romance?

With every lick
And every stroke
Do you believe in love?

Well, lets take it at slow pace
Not without judgement
But with complete fire ablaze
Every garment left scattered
And all my kisses left battered
On a sweat glistened skin
My body formed and molded into yours
Gentle yet fierce moments of sin
Your toes curling with every ******
Ripples across frames of good natured lust
Moans escaping from sweet delicate lips
Eyes in green euphoria
Yet a mind dedicated to indefinite bliss
Now you acting on emotions alone
Pouring my thoughts into pleasurable zones
Dedicating time to you every day
Morning or night
You are my sense of direction one way
Licking every last bit of your body in rhythmic fashion
Even your toes, because a woman is full of passion

Ethereal shards glistened in its breath,
radiant light flickered and her wings
were completely enveloped.

Ceasing she was birthed anew its old hands
held her delicately and smiled, stretching
her wings she fluttered off reborn.

I spent my life waiting for you.

Tasting your flesh on others, I knew the smell of your sweat before holding your physical face in my mind’s eye. But this does not matter.This was nothing but the feeling that aroused my being when looking into your eyes for the first time. This was simply the line in the water that attached my soul to yours and everyone else’s.

I held my breath and then, I saw you. light sparkling, aura burning. Your astral self floated around in my day dreams. I prayed. Listened harder than I have ever had to, because I had to. And in you came, galloping on a horse bright white. Like the gods themselves descended, and allowed you a few minutes to enter this dimension. To hold the hand of the lover(s) you never felt, but felt.

Soft, and gentle. Your skin reminded me of the house I grew up in, and longed to never leave. Your pain glistened like the glassiness of your eyes as you held me in your heart, terrified that I would leave you. That somehow your beauty would be taken for-granted, with the vision of me drinking your cup greedily and you having to refill and refill, until there was nothing to fill it with. And, I did. I drank, fearfully. That veil hung heavily in my eyes, wrapping my body tightly and you begged me to take it off. Let your face be seen, you said. I asked which one, and pulled out my heart. Stood there with it in my hands, letting sticky, smelly blood run down my calves and stomach, and you smiled. The first real smile I had seen, in what felt like decades.

Now, dissect. Rip it apart, you said. I argued that it may never look the same, that it would it would fill every nerve with pain. But just you smiled that smile, and took my hand. Tried to stitch every stitch, every slice, every position possible. But it kept slipping, the way you slipped around inside me. Moving, shifting, making space, rearranging my soul so it may fit you. So we may fit inside each other, in this life that was no longer ethereal, but a physical thing. Too physical for my soul to understand, it seemed. Relentlessly circling my small intestine around your throat, like a snake with no eyes left. Trying hard to go home.

Steam rolled down the hall
Invitation of an open door
Your sigh of incitement whispered
Kisses burnt between lovers
Hot water cascades down your back
Beads of desire
Washing off my fingerprints from the night before

Your aroma danced in the dust of a new day
Hot coffee caressed your lips
Detached from the now
Sunlight glistened in your eyes
That spark of moonlight lingered
The silence of dawn filled the air

The evolution of an afterthought
Cautiously optimistic
I wrapped myself in the flames of never
Divulging in a feeling
You left scars on my thighs
I enjoy the burn

Secrets stream from the walls
Like decades of nicotine
The stains remain upon my soul
A meant to be lover
I keep a lighter in the drawer
A night like this

An actually constantly imperiousness
this candid pearl moved diocese
impervious to his kind

examined his intricate relation between examples in line handsomely and abrupt.  
He imperiously evaporated in case of fire today

for a rising dew where Colorado glistened
in cold water River,
so let him commandeer the ground
on this Continental Divide
with his forthright doctrinaire
and fight a lunacy in Athens again.

Gnat
really did love me,
she cooked soup when I was sick
and came over
and listened as I told her flu stories,
I held her
as she cried over lost loves,
We glistened
in the sun
as we laid in the sand
of a contaminated lake,
she put her hand on my ****
like she was holding
love in her hands,
and I played in her pelvis
like a child, innocent
of anger and resentment,
so many of the lies
that we attribute
to adult relationships
occur
after love.

I hate that Gnat and I
no longer talk,
hate that she can't make me
pancakes in the morning,
or that I can't put blueberries
in her waffles.

I bumble down the street
to get some Wild Turkey,
remembering her last call,
our last talk.

It'll be ok,
she's gone
and I can find
place-holders.

This will be easy,
right?

Love is easy,
right?

Heartbreak is easy,
right?

But it's not,
it hurts like nails
in my forearms and palms.

She was like art still and silent
Beauty in the water, like a mirror
The essence of her shone from the
Halogen lights above.

She was like a picture, motionless
But still, her brushstrokes were
Grace upon skin, her moment
Was in this place, pictures taken
Of her pose of her posture frozen
in this place.

She was a beauty in the bath tub,
Her face in this lake of red, hiding
The deed, buried in temped water,
No longer pure, tainted by a final
Motion, claiming a last breath.

She was a beauty of refined allure,
But now her crimson glistened, refracted
Upon the light shining down a rainbow
Of shaded reds now greets all through
The heaven white doors.

She is the bath tub beauty now dead..