When you're a child, hotel rooms are magical, a place for pillow castles and blanket superheroes;
When you're a child, an empty paper towel roll is a telescope or sword, Excalibur in disguise;
When you're a child there's a man who runs on the telephone wires as you watch from behind car windows;
When you're a child you're told to act your age and grow up, to behave, sit nicely and mind your manners if you want special privileges.

So you do what you're told, and you grow up.

But when you grow up, hotel rooms become places for weary collapse in the stale cigarette burned blankets of a cheap road trip motel, or intimate rendevous with someone you can't take home.
When you grow up, an empty toilet paper roll is a reminder that you need to get groceries but you're running low on cash and payday is in a week and why don't we have any clean rags in this house?
When you grow up, you forget the telephone wire man because now you're driving and so help me I will turn this car around if you make one more sound back there!
When you grow up, you wish you didn't have to act your age or be grown up, you grumble at your boss and swear at the guy who cut in front of you because who the @#$% does he think he is?!

They don't tell you that when you grow up, you might lose your wonder.

icy breath sends flesh altering shivers
as the glacial winds blow
from the mountains
across quiet and still skin
slapping shoulders and hopping in place
the silent fight against the elements
more coats
extra sweaters
grandmothers knitted mittens
hot water bottle
and electrified blankets
all working in tandem
to break the chill
and fill me once again
with the joy that only the August sun
can bring –
fondly remembering sweat and sticking to leather
ice tea and barbeque
warm evenings on the porch swing
instead,
an icicle forms on the tip of my nose
as my exhalation
creates steam
freezing on contact
with the hateful and harsh air
exposed flesh reddens
and chaps –
each movement a fresh hell
aching joints balk at the subzero temps
the slightest stubbing
sending me into tirades of cursing
even rage only heats me up for a moment…
trying to keep moving
while worrying about frost bite
I notice a hole in my pants
and it becomes the focus of my life
each bit of motion
allowing more shards of glass to pierce my skin
wishing only for warm cocoa
and the crackling of a hard wood fire…
looking out at the tundra
the realization comes clear
while it is only a couple hundred yards to the house
I am sure to die
and be found in the spring thaw
rather than ever make it through
this wintery hell –

I promised myself
I leave you in the care of God
Leaving the affairs that I had planned
The nights of dreams
The moments of infatuation

So I waited for a place to exist
And I created the time to persist
The dreams of us
Beyond the space of realities
That holds us in place
This time
Apart

Sometimes i think to myself
Who am i lying to
I can charm my way out of love
But love
Love is only when two realities meet
The point of two oceans
And if i am still drowning
In the puddle of life that i have
I dont expect you to meet
Me in the vastness of nowhere

So I
I ask you to stand firm to our promise
However far apart we are
We meet in God
Where Space is His creation
And Time observe His ruling
In God
Where hearts go to find refuge
From the pain created out of His void
In God
Where Divinity is not His totality
For He is enough
Hasbunallahwanikma wakeel
In God
In God

In God

God
Guide me to You
Dont let me go astray
Dont let her go
I will run
To a place where i truly belong

Will we ever intersect
When our lines run parallel
At the point of infinity
Where only time will tell

conspire.....

Yours: snapping turtle in the cattail thrushes;
             IMPRESSIVE   you are!
Impressive you be.
              My rage ensues at cattail thrushes......
by your rage I steam
              and swagger bemused
succumb in glorious rendevous,
              amazed.
Mine: we conspire secretly,
SO naughty..... poetically.

----------------------------------------------
He was older.
He paid attention to me.
Years of being alone
With no sense of self-worth
He noticed.
I knew he was short
And chubby
And had a strange face
But he noticed.
I knew it was strange that
He was interested in one so much younger
But I craved someone to care for me.
A reprimand from my mother
My brother
A teacher
And it was over.
Then months past
I needed it again.
I was slipping
Again
Into somewhere I didn't want to be.
A secret rendevous
With his mother asleep in the next room.
A lost shirt
A gained shirt.
Months past
It was over again.
----------------------------------------------------------­--------
A year passes
The boy I had a past with
[Secret hand-holding in a football field
Stolen glances
Nothing serious]
Shows renewed interest
In the dark of night
In the backseat of a car.
The first time
I noticed an *******
Against my backside.
The first time
I saw one
In real life.
Months past
I never cared for him
But he told me he loved me.
I told him I didn't.
Eventually I couldn't hurt him anymore.
I wasn't getting anything from it anyway.
Just experience.
-----------------------------------------------------­---
Now I have him.
He is mine and I am his.
But really, I am mine.
I'm too independent for him
But we share our awkwardness.
Three years have almost past
Many more will, too.
From him
I have gained a family
A patience
A sense of self-worth
And love for others.
He is the end of it, I guess.
I had to get through the others first
(And I honestly wouldn't mind going through more)
But with relationships, you grow.
--------------------------------------------------------

Though weekdays are quite busy here
Quiet weekends are what I fear
I'm always putting on my shoes
And going out for rendevous

Windermere is a busy place
Lots of visitors set the pace
The splendid scenery is free
So very much to see

Kendal Town boasting progression
With the yearly 'Torchlight Procession'
Places to see, places to play
A wonderful way to pass your day

For all the tourist towns the race is on
This weekend Kendal has won

I stopped by to touch the Soul of the Moon
One more time
Before The body of a man claims me
In this moment of Giving

Curtains drawn tightly,
Now Quickly thrown aside
Open for all to See...
An animals cage revealed
The Paris of Illumination....
A Secret Rendevous with Choice
...Above Thought

Emergence of the Fearless One
Angels Harkening
And So It Is.

When bread meets butter
it is a sensuous serendipity.

What ensues can only be
described as an ****** symbiotic.

I stopped by to touch the Soul of the Moon
One more time
Before The body of a man claims me
In this moment of Giving

Curtains drawn tightly,
Now Quickly thrown aside
Open for all to See...
An animals cage revealed
The Paris of Illumination....
A Secret Rendevous with Choice
...Above Thought

Emergence of the Fearless One
Angels Harkening
And So It Is.

just as watching MTV
the Producers want to pay the bills.
The Artists take a break
to get high, or drink *****
from their purses.

End up over the toidy,
spitting their guts
out, or
arranging rendevous
for when
the lights go down.

Or cutting lines, sniffing up
substances into their
store bought
noses.

Not a droplet of dream or ambition

once bitten, a rendevous is due with intimate suspicion

offset by a faucet of sleep-dust running off yet,

even with a mind to wander and a heart to spill over introspection;

that moistens my lips, but no cascades of schemes or missions

or even desire, not even a wish

seen as empty for I do not have a goal

I don't want anything greater for myself

a walking, unburied plot, an inconvenient hole

bereft of a career, love, possession, or wealth

and all the more fulfilled for the time I keep

the dirt does not care who steps on it, it settles where it falls and there it is earth all the same, and the earth does sleep.



The unburdened become pressured

to feel the weight of direction

that one is not free to flow

as they please, without navigation

unfetter me, untether me, you have no future to sell me

all these promises of luxury and tier-locked sensations

destroy balance, perception and health

falsifying the demand in a supplied narrative

mass-producing the genocide of individuality

from artists raised in poverty to success stories searing on college degrees

the appeal of "drive" is one to virility

that only holds a digit on the hand of the economy.

NOW

         IS

            WHERE

                FUTURE

                    AND

                        PAST

                            RENDEVOUS

                                WHEN

                                   THEY

                                       HAVE

                                          NOTHING

                                              ELSE

                                                  TO

                                                      DO

                                                          WHICH

                                                              IS

                                                                 WHY

                                                                     IT

                                                                        KNOWN

                                                                           AS

                                                                               THE

                                                                                   DEVIL’S

                                                                                       WORKSHIP

                                                                                           AND

                                                                                               NO

                                                                                                  DOUBT

                                                                                                     THE

                                                                                                        REASON

                                                                                                            FOR

                                                                                                                
                                                                                              THEY’RE

                                                                                                                    
                                                                       CHRONIC

                                                                                                                          
                                                  HABITUAL

                                                                                                                              
               CHRONOLOGICAL

                                                                                                                                   CONDITION.

It's the silken sound,
on the near-naked ground
like a long blade of grass.

It's in your first hope,
cherished and memorized.
the sudden gust of wind,
scented Sandals teasing the high ground

It's in your  turned pages,
that invites you
like a corral,
teasing the rendevous
climbing the waterfall.
Oh how we were once children