Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains.
The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads.
But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child
You shout, 'The swifts are back!'


Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther
Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields.
Swereee swereee. Another. And another.
It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs.


The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether.
These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers.
But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers
Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves.


Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for
Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them,
All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms,
They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains.


Here is a legend of swifts, a parable —
When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds,
The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things
Like shoes, with long legs and short wings,


So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk.
And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this,
'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky
On condition that you give up rest.'


'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest.
We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep,
Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms.
Let us be free, be air!'


So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies.
He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives.
He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet.
Then he released them, Never to Return


Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so
We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but
Bolts in the world's need: swift
Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply


Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing.
The grace to say they live in another firmament.
A way to say the miracle will not occur,
And watch the miracle.

A Poem for Three Voices

Setting:  A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE:
I am slow as the world.  I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon's concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen?  I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me.  I am ready.

SECOND VOICE:
When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it.
I watched the men walk about me in the office.  They were so flat!
There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it,
That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions,
Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed,
Endlessly proceed--and the cold angels, the abstractions.
I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed:  'Have you seen something awful?
You are so white, suddenly.'  And I said nothing.
I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation.
I could not believe it.  Is it so difficult
For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth?
The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed
From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit.  I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures!
The silver track of time empties into the distance,
The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup.
These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs.  I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death.  Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I **** up?  Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE:
I remember the minute when I knew for sure.
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine--
It had a consequential look, like everything else,
And all I could see was dangers:  doves and words,
Stars and showers of gold--conceptions, conceptions!
I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look,
Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river.
There is a snake in swans.
He glided by; his eye had a black meaning.
I saw the world in it--small, mean and black,
Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act.
A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.  It was too late, and the face
Went on shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now.  I am not at home.
How white these sheets are.  The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me:  they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life.  They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances.  I have tried and tried.
I have stitched life into me like a rare *****,
And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
I have tried not to think too hard.  I have tried to be natural.
I have tried to be blind in love, like other women,
Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one,
Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look.  But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces.  The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind:
They are so jealous of anything that is not flat!  They are jealous gods
That would have the whole world flat because they are.
I see the Father conversing with the Son.
Such flatness cannot but be holy.
'Let us make a heaven,' they say.
'Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.'

FIRST VOICE:
I am calm.  I am calm.  It is the calm before something awful:
The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves
Turn up their hands, their pallors.  It is so quiet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks.
Voices stand back and flatten.  Their visible hieroglyphs
Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off.
They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown.  I am a seed about to break.
The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen:
It does not wish to be more, or different.
Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary.
O color of distance and forgetfulness!--
When will it be, the second when Time breaks
And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart--
Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial.
Waiting lies heavy on my lids.  It lies like sleep,
Like a big sea.  Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug
Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal.
And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach
Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE:
I am a mountain now, among mountainy women.
The doctors move among us as if our bigness
Frightened the mind.  They smile like fools.
They are to blame for what I am, and they know it.
They hug their flatness like a kind of health.
And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did?
They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs?
I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments.
It is a place of shrieks.  It is not happy.
'This is where you will come when you are ready.'
The night lights are flat red moons.  They are dull with blood.
I am not ready for anything to happen.
I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE:
There is no miracle more cruel than this.
I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves.
I last.  I last it out.  I accomplish a work.
Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations,
The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces.
I am the center of an atrocity.
What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence **** and ****?  It milks my life.
The trees wither in the street.  The rain is corrosive.
I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors,
The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers
With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.
I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting.
I shall be a sky and a hill of good:  O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.
I am breaking apart like the world.  There is this blackness,
This ram of blackness.  I fold my hands on a mountain.
The air is thick.  It is thick with this working.
I am used.  I am drummed into use.
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.
I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE:
I am accused.  I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies.  I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing.  And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint.  It is red.
I lose life after life.  The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all.  So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind.  Her mouth is red.
I know her.  I know her intimately--
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly.  She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down.  I die.  I make a death.

FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales.  He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.  May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE:
There is the moon in the high window.  It is over.
How winter fills my soul!  And that chalk light
Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices,
Empty schoolrooms, empty churches.  O so much emptiness!
There is this cessation.  This terrible cessation of everything.
These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers--
What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument.
And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth
Open in its gape of perpetual grieving.
It is she that drags the blood-black sea around
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless.  Restless and useless.  I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north.  I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack.  I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.  I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral.
I shall not be accused by isolate buttons,
Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces
Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case.
I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused.
The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars
That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE:
I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl.
She is crying through the glass that separates us.
She is crying, and she is furious.
Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats.
It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice.
She is crying at the dark, or at the stars
That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood,
A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open.
And from the open mouth issue sharp cries
Scratching at my sleep like arrows,
Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side.
My daughter has no teeth.  Her mouth is wide.
It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE:
What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they've come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water.
They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world--
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images.  They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched.  They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry.  It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk.
I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE:
I am not ugly.  I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that.  I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic.  Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago.  It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless.  So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs.  And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE:
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting:  Goodbye, goodbye.
The day is blazing.  It is very mournful.
The flowers in this room are red and tropical.
They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for
        tenderly.
Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces.
There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know.
There is my comb and brush.  There is an emptiness.
I am so vulnerable suddenly.
I am a wound walking out of hospital.
I am a wound that they are letting go.
I leave my health behind.  I leave someone
Who would adhere to me:  I undo her fingers like bandages:  I go.

SECOND VOICE:
I am myself again.  There are no loose ends.
I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments.
I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,
Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again.
There little black twigs do not think to bud,
Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain.
This woman who meets me in windows--she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit.
how shyly she superimposes her neat self
On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs.
She is deferring to reality.
It is I.  It is I--
Tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open:  it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE:
Today the colleges are drunk with spring.
My black gown is a little funeral:
It shows I am serious.
The books I carry wedge into my side.
I had an old wound once, but it is healing.
I had a dream of an island, red with cries.
It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE:
Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house.
The swifts are back.  They are shrieking like paper rockets.
I hear the sound of the hours
Widen and die in the hedgerows.  I hear the moo of cows.
The colors replenish themselves, and the wet
Thatch smokes in the sun.
The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured.  I am reassured.
These are the clear bright colors of the nursery,
The talking ducks, the happy lambs.
I am simple again.  I believe in miracles.
I do not believe in those terrible children
Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands.
They are not mine.  They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. &n

I told the swifts they’d got it wrong
I watched them glide and dip and play
The sky was of the richest hue
Without a the slightest hint of grey

But slowly as the day wore on
The clouds began to blot the light
And doubts began to fill my head
Could the swifts have got it right?

Of course they had, why even ask
No confusion in their feathery heads
The clues were plain, the signs were clear
The rain would come, as soon as said

And so it did, with lightening flash
With thunderous roar and constant pound
With drops the size of apricots
To slake the tired and parch-ed ground.

We mustn’t doubt our fellow creatures
They feel things that we’d never sense
Watch for signs and **** an ear
And bow to Nature’s sapience.


Stuart Williamson     August 2016     ©

A feather will drift but hard as is, you cannot catch a migrating swift. A tap will drip, a slow death rising from an evaporating pool, a cloud will steal what the sun will lift. Life will wilt and seeds will sprout, earth will provide what deity choked on drought. Promise will hibernate and people will pray, roots will remember and hope will stay, next seasons gorged seeds on which swifts will prey.

Such a wind today! The air
seems almost solid. Impossible
to go out in it.

Swifts invoking anti-gravity
lean on the air with sickle wings,
slice upward through it;
hang weightless at the peak,
then accepting the pull of earth,
hurtle downhill on kamikaze ski-run,
a mutual slalom, each avoiding
a hundred twisting obstacles;
alter their angle to the air, and rise again
up invisible gradients,
a swooping, soaring ballet with the wind,
its complex choreography
conceived in the tiny brains
of a hundred separate birds.

One pair, suddenly detached,
wings fluttering, wheel and plunge,
circle each other in an aerial
ice-dance pas de deux,
stunt kites without strings;
return to the flock, and are replaced
by another, and another, virtuoso couple.
The whole etherial stage is full
of improvisational star turns.

Such a wind! Impossible
for this earthbound human
to go out in it.
I'll stay and watch the show.

On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....

1.
Eyes, eager fish, in deep Himalayan blue, splash and swim
the ultramarine sky of the mind, gets color coordinated, in resonance
wind from across the ranges, incessantly chant  guttural "Öm"
gently spreads waves, that on ears, vibrate as music,divine
our feet get liberated from mind's control,  the trek becomes us.
2.
Eyes now, turn swifts, fly to the valley extending to horizon,
teeming with flowers of every hue, profusion of orchids,
rolling white clouds above,create *tantric patterns
of grace, swirls, swoops,scoops, somersaults,the trek goes on.
3.
Melting ice, fits well on the conical brown mountain tops,
a white bodice, perfect cover for her lovely peaks,
angular mounts gleam in the limitless avalanche
of light, an impulse for benediction is palpable.
4.
Simple folks of village, on the way side
in flowing colorful dresses *****, tall poles
festoons of bright colors, joyous prayer flags   flutter in wind
proclaims festive spirit, they vigorously wave.
5.
Now heart overwhelms, sings the paeans of
a sky that changes it's face from blue to white
and sometimes, a hue so bleak, deep gloom,
on red brown earth, sun light prances around.
6.
The grass bed then transforms quick,
mind drinks the dense benediction peace brings
that coils inside the soft blue waves, beating within and out
7.
Himalayan blue has taken us in to it's embrace
bird songs ring along the path of ancient sages,
who went in to the forest abode to contemplate, never returned,
became one with the hum of cosmos, they walk within us.

It's all gone out of me, the hammer falls and I'm not ready to answer
Trembling, weakness supporting a tub of jelly
The pollen-filled air flies past like the
Pelicans at the edge of the harbor
Taking us gliding for an unpleasant ride
Down the corridors of plastic colors
Through the one word answers that bubble forth from
10,000 years away in hyperspace
Where the mechanisms of language become so convoluted
That they disappear completely out at the vanishing point
Coming up behind you again to drag you into that smoky allure
You remember hating and pinching your nose from
And hiding in the car, but the new fear is of becoming addicted to it
Just like your addiction to ego games and
Intellect, just like your addiction to pleasure and constant validation

The validation's there in the eternal self, they say
But I'm an intellectual
Too impatient for meditation
And lost along the way to enlightenment
That I truly want,
But then I'll never have it if I continue to live this way

It's wilderness calling from a tame fool
Sticking up for you the overgrown horoscope signifies
The shapes of skydives,
He comes in and out of our dull lives
And there's an electric current that solidifies between
Him, Us, and his music
Iron rods jutting up from scorched earth
A broken paradise
Crumbling in a whisky tumbler
Blackened by fiber filters, creations
Unlocked by flowing ontological
Caricatures, open wounds gnashing
At attention-seeking osteopaths
Fortune seekers clamber down
Soccer field bleachers,
Somebody lost his sneakers in the woods
Once there was a set of barbells along the trail
We fell in line and started
Counting each other
One by one it seemed like the green apples would never fall
It was up to us to wait for the shower
It would feed our kin
We'd begin to rise up together
But it could never keep up with our pen
We wanted the ghosts to follow us and overtake our mortal foes
But we couldn't command the armies of the dead
We derive all our pleasures from films and campfire stories
We contrive our adventures but we wait for them to happen to us
We take a passive role in finding love
And it blinks lights at us across suburban streets through windows in the dark
The mind begins to writhe with new memories it composed of old
An idealized time of a child with the perverse mind
Of a hogtied adolescent
Guessing that the course of existence
Isn't determined by the speed of your calculations
Testing the warm water on a naked toe
We could dive in and forget to breathe
And the water could carry us forever
Alleviating gravity
All the obstacles we perceived in past lives
Remain with us like
Chimney swifts on the bottomless April days of a
Klu Klux **** telephone operator
Who believed in the spirit and the holy ghost
And burned a quiet altar to Satan's minions every Sunday night
Drinking nail polish and
Obscure references to the films of the
Ancient Greek philosophers, who
Saw the medium as a means to a message
And patronized the elitest filmmakers to study the ancient Runes
And reveal their findings to a power-hungry public
That would not outright reject it
But that would have to follow it down the rabbit hole
Through the wide mouth of the trumpet around brass fixtures
And into the tight hot moist mouth of the trumpeter
And the elemental warriors would strike oil beneath the whole affair
Ending the time we spent hoping for any entertainment to create itself before our barren psyches
Busying ourselves with incomprehensible tasks and letting our indolence take the reins until we found our heads again out there amid the vapors of
New car chem trails and old railroad bunkers where spruce and cedar grow through cement earth, they force apart the ground with just their roots

We weren't ready to keep watch the following weekend but we
Had no choice when the government bond expired
And we had only technological solutions left to hope for
And wrongly we abandoned our research posts to fight the enemies
With giant weapons and uncreative slogans
Our drummers played so fast we marched along and killed all that remained in record doubletime
Rendering the events of that victorious day immortal in the ingenious accounts of
Philosopher/poet/historian Michael Jackson
Who gave one final performance
To save himself from what must not be

We had blown through half the ***** and the drugs were nowhere to be found  in this oasis's of debauchery and bad decisions .
Bone had thrown his usual  temper fit and with his spoiled rich boy roots showed his *** in the worst possible way till someone finally shut him the **** up.

And after the ******* dude had knocked my sometimes friend most times pain in my *** sidekick out.
Looking to me in half spent rage and ****** knuckles asking now what the **** are you  going to do?

Well I'm going to have another round and play the jukebox now that someone finally shut that ******* up what you having amigo?
You mean your just going to sit there and let me get away with what I did to your friend that way.

Who that guy in the floor I don't know him.
But you came in here together **** you been sitting here drinking for at least five hours and your telling me you don't know him?

Oh that guy sleeping in a pool of blood in the floor?
Yeah stupid .
Nope never met him but he 's alright sometime when he's not ******* then he's well less a ***** and more just a regular ******* .

What are you ******* with me ******!?

The burly man asked as pure anger flowed like the Rio grand within his eye's
Some people have to build the rage up like some strange volcano to inflict damage on others and some are just ******* by design.
I wasn't sure of this man's type I just knew it was to dam hot to hit the highway and the cervasa was cold the music was right and I had no intention of leaving before my buzz kicked in.

What's to stop me from just kicking your *** like I did this ******* *******  ****** you tell me what's to stop me from taking your money and  rolling your *** right out of this place?

Mexico still bleeds of the past and it's people still show that passion for a good fight that at it's base is the true nature of man .
Not to be some violent nut but the passion for life at it's sharpest and most dangerous edge .

Well my friend I can think of a few reasons and probably none will be that pleasant.

I'm done with your games ****** .
The man moved forward fists clenched ready for round two I suppose
but his eye's sure were shocked when he found a barrel of a gun placed firmly between his eyes.

Now I told you this wasn't going to be pleasant sure you could have sat your angry *** down on a bar stool had a drink or two but no you had to play the ******* when I was just trying to catch a good buzz I swear some people have no manners .

The room went dead silent like some cheap spaghetti western right before someone was about to get killed minus that weird *** music so I guess it wasn't that silent at all as one old man turned his head then just went back to his drink like I don't give a **** as long as he doesn't bother me or make me stop drinking.


Oh **** ****** don't pull that ******* trigger  the man said his rage had turned more into a look of fear or maybe just a look of he just **** his pants honestly what's the difference well minus the smell.

with a gun in one hand and a beer in another I called the bartender down .
Mix me a mist and coke barkeep please.

No Whiskey just tequila senior .
What ! I replied in a fake sort of shock .
I swear no whiskey No women what kind of bar is this place I swear do I have to shoot somebody to get a bottle of whiskey ?

No no ****** the man at the end of the gun pleaded just get him some ******* whiskey Goddamit  he yelled at the bartender.
Really you don't have to be rude oh I'm sorry what's your name I been to busy holding you at gunpoint you must forgive my manners.

My names Gonzo I enjoy killing my liver hookers but only in moderation  like a good Christian  and ballroom dancing .
The man at the end of the boom stick lost all fear at least for a second.
Really ballroom dancing?

I'm kidding bout that one amigo but I do enjoy watching a good pole dancer  high five to that I mean I would  give you a high five if I wasn't holding a gun to your head and all .

Um you ever going to tell me your name bud?
I looked at this now downright scared shitless man who seemed to have a real issue with sweating from the strange puddle on the floor.

I swear you pull a fully loaded pistol on someone and point it to there head and everyone just acts so serious people are so strange these days.

Bill the man with a sweating problem replied.
Bill ?  Really what Mexican is named Bill ?
I mean I come all the  way down here get into some wild west kickass trouble and I find the only Mexican named Bill .
******* Machete you ruined my whole experience of what this was supposed to be like.

Sir. the man tried to speak up behind the  bar.
Don't interrupt me barkeep I'm on a dam roll here duh who you thinks writing this story imaginary person I created within my own demented mind.

You see Bill when I come across the border I expect a few simple things kick *** ****** cheap drinks and badass people like yourself named Razor or Spider  Or  El Nino or some sort of **** is that raciest sure put labels on what we have here amigo but I come for a kickass time in Mexico  and you really well you just killed it so I hope your happy.

I'm so sorry but please don't **** me Bill Replied .
Sir the barkeep spoke up again.

Okay what bartender being my whole trip has been ruined by Mexican Bill who honestly I feel if not for all this gun and life or death **** we could have a true connection but not like in a gone fishing on that mountain **** were those two cowboys corn hole each other  or maybe they just played corn hole once is fine I mean its not like I saw that movie and cried at the end cause duh I would never go see that in some cheap attempt to get laid by my teenage stripper girlfriend yeah don't ask.

Okay barkeep what the hell is it.
Well sir were not in Mexico.
This man was clearly more drunk than I for he didn't know what dam country he was in.

Amigo are you sure you know what your talking about.
Well yeah the barkeep replied your in Busch gardens theme park .
Well that certainly explains the ******* roller coaster and why that woman near it slapped me when I asked how much for a ******* boy do I feel embarrassed.

I knew I shouldn't have had that acid before leaving the house .
I did think it was strange that Germany was within walking distance.

So after nearly giving Mexican Bill a heart attack who was actually was Canada Bill once made me feel a little better because  honestly just for Nickleback and Justin Bieber  was grounds enough to pull a gun on him .

We sat  enjoyed some drinks as Bone laid passed out in the floor and said I don't want to go to school every time I kicked him cause I'm a true **** for a friend duh like you hadn't figured that out.

We laughed we rode rides we beat some dude up in France just because he was French .

And in the parking lot as we said are goodbyes.
I stood there and said you know Bill it's been great sorry bout the whole thinking I was in a foreign country and pulling a gun on you and stuff.

It's cool Gonz sorry about all my ****** music we pollute your airwaves with I know it's like being prison ****** by some dude called Harley .

Well I got to go and Bill  you stay crazy and by the way go take a ******* bath cause you **** your pants and it smells worse than Taylor swifts crouch okay .

Yeah the city landfill doesn't have **** on her .

We parted  are ways drunk and behind the wheel like good Americans .
And if that ****** you off just wait till my next write.

Duh it's just a story *******.
Stay crazy hamsters .

Your captain  

Gonzo

Reciting your enchanting beauty
My life swifts from river mode to sea
Where it is deeper and yet empty
Which drift/drives my life to agony

The wind of obsessity carries me
To a place I always dreamt to be
Placing my head in your lap I see;
A future where we could be happy

But gradually the dream gets over
As the obsessity wind gets slower
Revisiting the reality again
Introduces me to a familiar pain

The pain is not of losing you
You were not a reward to be won
But since now you're gone
I feel a friend is departing too


With shallow breath and watery eye
Trembling limps and left with a sigh
The heart beneath nearly die
The moment you said, goodbye...

I don't need drugs
To ruin my life
With an emotional outburst
Its hard to survive

On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy the enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

*Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....

Shimmering Sea

Sitting at my cluttered desk
I’ve just attacked a rabbit
with a knife. Don’t fret,
it was an Easter gift,
a golden bunny bebowed
and belled, the chocolate
incised and brought to light,
rich and dark so keenly
comforting aside the coffee
beaned from Nepal.

Her gift so lovingly given
I bless her ever-thoughtfulness,
and turn my thoughts
to see her walking by the sea,
on the cliff path
by the shimmering,
glimmering sea, always
at her right hand, blue,
an April blueness
barely a footstep from
a vertical drop through
the light-filled air . . .


Heady Scents

Fox, she would say,
without so much as
a sudden sniff,
and carry on her way
alert to all and everything.
And I would wonder,
Fox? But I had not been
schooled to recognize
a creature’s scent,
though sensitive always
to the human kind:
that sweetness after ***
found in Cupid’s gym.
So the subtle coconut
of bright-flowering gorse
and garlic woodland-wild
when trodden under foot.
will have to do instead.


Brimstone and Blues

Well, the sea is blue today,
why not the butterflies too?
though seen, it seemed
for a second,
fluttering at her feet,
tumbling indecisively
in flickering flight,
then gone: to leave
a stain of perfect blue
upon the retinal cells.


Peacocks (not butterflies)

I thought it was a peacock’s cry,
but it turned to be a turkey
out in the orchard next
our path to the sea.

Such an unpleasant-looking
bird whose tatty hind-feathers
rose as its blood-red throat
trembled with venomous
indignation at our presence.

Sad creature,
so ugly,
a troubling form
lacking grace or line,
majesty or wonder,
colour or display
of the pave cristasus.


Skylarks

Larking skywards
in the soft spring
vertiginous blueness
of the daylight heavens,
on song with circular breath,
seaward and away.
We only saw it descend
and heard the formants
change of its harmoniced
voice as it brushed
the standing crop,
finally fell,
and disappeared.


Swallows

Martins maybe?
Surely swifts?
But swallows?
Not yet awhile.

Some similar birds
fresh from flight
across southern seas
appeared, tumbled over,
shook the blue air,
then disappeared, as
suddenly greedy for grubs,
insectivously joyful,
so glad to be over land
once more.


Stonechats

I take your word for it
(having still to finish
the birding book you gave
at Christmas). Sounds right:
the sound of two stones
being rubbed together?
This robin-sized bird,
though dumpy in comparison,
who likes to sit on a gorse bush
and flick it wings; a nervous habit
some might say.


Blue on Blue

The sea in your eyes
is blue on blue
dear friend, dear lover
of my earthy self
whose eyes are browny-green,
whilst your’s own cloudless sky,
reflect the still shimmering sea.


A Ruined Castle

In a gap between
Purbeck Hills.
the Castle of Corfe
stands tall yet ruined.
Kaikhosru Sorabji
once lived in its sight,
composer, pianist, recluse.
Owning a cottage
he called The Eye,
with a Steinway Grand
and a cat called Jami  -
he wrote long complex music
people found difficult to play.
Eventually forbidding
all performances, he died
aged 96 - in 1988.
A curious man.


A Complete Castle

This must be an Italianate folly,
hardly ruined but complete.
We’d stopped for tea,
both hot and thirsty.
You’d hoped for ice cream
but had to wait for another day,
another place.

Had we not a train to catch,
and two miles still to walk,
we might have sat on its balcony
high above the shimmering sea,
and whilst eating ice cream,
looked on the sight of Lot’s Wife,
that white and final pillar of chalk
far out in Alum bay.


A Chapel

Profoundly square,
on a cliff-top high,
buttressed to its cardinal points
with a single window,
with a single door,
this chapel stands
where St Aldhelm
of Malmesbury,
would sing his sermons,
and, just for fun, some
hexametric enigmata
(riddles to you and me)

From his weaver’s riddle, Lorica:

non sum setigero
lanarum uellere facto
Nec radiis carpor duro
nec pectine pulsor

I am not made from
the rasping fleece of wool,
no leashes pull [me] nor
garrulous threads reverberate . . .


A Lighthouse

Brilliant white
and thoroughly walled about,
squat and unmanned,
it sits begging for
a crashing wave,
a serious storm,
but not today.
The sea is still,
calm and gently lapping
against the rocks below.


A Steam Train**

At Swanage station
just in time,
and amply satisfied
by our twelve-mile walk,
we settled ourselves
on bench-like seats
in the carriage
next the engine as
56XX Tank No.6695
took on water,
built up steam
for the seven-mile ride
past Heston Halt,
past Harman’s Cross
to Castle Corfe.

A circuit made
in seven hours
by path and rail.

Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.

Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.

it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.


We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.

All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.

Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.

Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.

And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.

Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.

Glacier National Park, Lower Quartz Lake
Wednesday August 12, 2015 Day 1 of the backpacking trek.

Our tent next to the still waters.
Eventide respite.
Deborah reflecting in solitude at sunset.
Quiet with a gentle breath of mountain air.
Without an updraft to soar and glide upon, the eagle, nesting in the range of the watershed, has retired for the day.
A pair of Common Loons and four Hooded Merganser prepare for the nights cooling, moving in the glossy water toward their rest, gentle lines tracing as the water crests and falls behind.
Black swifts emerge from the shadows, dancing near the lake to feed on twilight insects.
The orange sky and red orb of Sol are a prelude to a multitude of stars as the world turns into darkness.

Let's go outside
Swifts are scything high
The last to cry the sun good night
Wings are beating then they glide

Let's walk round the meadow
As we like to do
We could be Summer gypsies you and I
Watch each day in pastel shades give way

All is kind, mild and soft
Daylight graced away
As we survey our sanctuary
Far from the maddening, saddening motorway

A fragile film of mist hangs above the meadow flowers
We wonder at the science of it
As nature's breath is blown aside
Like a magic trick

We could stay out here all night
Be Summer gypsies you and I
But we are tied
Signed up to this, bound by that
Anchored, rooted to the workaday

Come inside, for we must sleep
We need to sleep
Let the night its gentle solstice secrets keep

Crawling through the smoke of darkness demise
She swiftly came in thee
The way me' ran in awefull speed
A mare disguise of a shadow...
.... the shadow of a tree..
She swifts into my soul
Hence ,Possession thee..

Love she called it..
All was ever it was disguised in greed..
As swiftly she came in thee...
She took everything...
Every part of me...
Every penny...
Left a knife..
To fathe'r the soul free..

Bells within
cause clangor,
drown
sounds that
currents make as
they boil past-
we go in
opposite.

White lie servants,
steering the wheel so
far south,
how could we not
go down?

No Captain to
guide.
And though this
vessel's shared,
We've proven only
mock shipmates.

Churning swifts keep all
aboard-
Ship clutch tenants
close.
All at once trapped
and
left behind.

He felt devoid of words, after being surrounded by them for the past 48 hours. As a writer there was this constant itch that one should be in thrall to the urge to write. It was what writers did, when they were not talking, or listening to others talk, as you do, sitting on the train, listening to the talk of others.

He was so easily seduced by the roll and pace of words spoken with intent. The voice reading on the radio, that book at bedtime, that well-scripted introduction. He felt this might be part of the reason he liked to start the public day by attending the Morning Office in his city’s cathedral, just a short walk from his studio; this elevation of the written to word to the spoken, deliberate utterance that lifted those yards of printed text in the book on the lectern he occasionally had the privilege to read out loud. It had been the book of Amos this week. Not a text he knew, and yet he had been surprised. He had meant to look up the chapters read when he returned to his desk – but hadn’t. Only now, early this morning as the streets below were swept in the city, and the night’s young revellers were returning home in the waiting white taxis, he read the words of Amos, of his 8th Century (BCE) vision and prophesy. It was dark stuff, warnings of doom, disaster couched in language that whilst poetic had a hard edge; not the poetry of the Psalms . . . but some verses had caught him:

Behold, I am pressed under you, as a cart is pressed that is full of sheaves. Therefore the flight shall perish from the swift, and the strong shall not strengthen his force, neither shall the mighty deliver himself:  Neither shall he stand that handleth the bow; and he that is swift of foot shall not deliver himself: neither shall he that rideth the horse deliver himself.  And he that is courageous among the mighty shall flee away naked in that day, saith the LORD.

He had walked away into the morning city, the city preparing itself for a weekday of shopping and business, and found himself saying under his breath the flight shall perish from the swift. It was such a powerful image: he saw in his mind’s eye the swifts quartering the field below his cottage on that Welsh mountain as they sought food for their young nested in a dark corner of the barn, their nest a marvel of nature’s engineering hanging high from the wall. He saw their flight perish, saw these miracle birds fall from the sky. He felt the silence of the empty field. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of a silencing of birds, their flights stilled, perished in some Armageddon.

And later that week two hundred and fifty miles south under the lush greenness of the tree canopies on that Devon road to Buckfastleigh, these words had reappeared as though in some recurring litany. He had looked from the speeding car into the early morning, and, following the river running beside the road, had remembered a morning past. Beside that very river he had crouched close in wonder at it all, and that he had almost slept the night through in her arms, by her side, alive to her every movement and breath, and to wake, and find it all true and not dreamt.

He had had no poetry for that morning past. He was sure he had found something later, of their days together there. Her passionate kiss in the gardens at Hestercombe, the rub and touch of her leg under a restaurant table, her beauty a shining star beside him at that gallery opening, lying together amongst daisies in the garden he had recited the poetry of Alice Oswald, and the blue skies, and the distant moorland glimpsed, and his heart pounding with love and passion for this gentle figure who he couldn’t help himself touch and kiss, whose hand he would seek and hold at every turn . . .

How could he not be a poet when he had known such things he had only previously imagined? And now he had become a person whose words others listened to and read. Because? If pressed, he might say he had been woken into a world he had only previously glimpsed, occasional revelations had come fleetingly, but now they were ever present. It was as if when he looked into her face he would step into a place where she belonged, a place she was still fashioning for herself, where she dreamed herself to be, and he would be, possibly, and possibly always. It was always too much to think of when he was alone.

He missed her terribly as he walked the gardens he had once walked with her, had sat and sketched with her, had stood at slight distances from her to savour her still beauty. But there was no escaping the words, the needs of words, the talk, the idle talk he couldn’t do. And now, home at his desk and the backlit screen, the persistent noise of this city he inhabited reluctantly, he was devoid of words and yet, and yet. At five o’clock this morning he had filled his favourite china cup with his favoured blend of tea, his morning tea cup decorated with its traditional Chinese blue on white pattern of temples, bridges and trees and given himself time with book. It was Farwell Song by Rabindranath Tagore, that great Indian writer who he remembered had walked those gardens with Leonard and Dorothy, those Elmhirsts who had made the gardens what they are today. Tagore, a writer courted for his wisdom and passion for rural reconstruction, a friend of Gandhi, Einstein, W.B. Yeats. Such people, he thought, and I have walked amongst their ghosts, in this place that twenty five years earlier had laid its spell on him, and he had loved, and come to love with even more devotion because he could not think of the peace and loveliness of it all without her presence there. And yet they were apart, and she had her life, and he had his life, but through the poetry of their respective endeavors, their art making, their creative energy, they came together in what he felt was a similar spirit.

In the hour before his train had left for the South West a letter had arrived with two cards. On one card, sewn into the card, a eucalyptus leaf, sewn with eucalyptus-dyed thread, and with it a blank card for ‘something in return; something personal, gentle, tentative, appropriate to our lives’.

He had carried both cards with him, these cards of papier aquarelle (300gsm) that had graced her touch, been held by her deft fingers. He had placed them between the leaves of his poetry book, a book he used exclusively for his written words. He had placed the card with the leaf resting against a vase of Lathyrsu odoratus. Vase and card placed on the pine desk in a guest room in a friend’s house they had remained in place, together, those two nights, and he recalled holding the leafed card briefly before he turned out the light to lay down to sleep, thinking only of her as he waited for sleep to embrace him.

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot

The still grass
Stands near alone
Before the final crew comes
With trucks and blueprints and concrete
To slap together rent fortune
For the white cadillac man.

Summer swinging madly
Over empty lot

The post oaks
Hesitate along lot edge,
Wait to see what happens
To the few brave mesquite:
Better to stand on edges
And wait
Than venture
To vulnerable heart
Of empty lot.

Summer winging madly
Over empty lot

The birds wing madly over
Rarely dropping
To the grass for seeds;
They sit upon the postoaks
At the edge
And keep a watchful eye
Upon the road.
All wing madly to the edge:
Grackles, swifts, and doves,
The mockingbirds, all
Save one persistent meadowlark
Without a mate
That sings each morning
From the wire,
One silly songster
That loneliness has blinded
And brought to chime
Its idyll
Summer song
Over empty lot.

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot.

Take this useless tongue of mine
I am merely a passive observer in this game we call Life
              All ideal;
                            No action
Egress my soul through the impenetrable  fortress
               splitting a difference between the realities
                    of Hip and Loneliness. I find my spirit
                              obscured within the latter realm.

                                    Take this loveless heart of mine
I am merely a conquistador's familiarity with failure
            it beats in rhythms;
                               consider it a charity
Descending from the heavens of my imagination, a
              radiant lioness swifts into my being and lifts
                     above...above into El Paraiso Del Deseo
                                   It's time to unfurl these eyelids


1-30-13

Gusto affairs spiraled to marooned stairs!!

Amphibious angel,
Where art thou own wings?
Apparent your sanctioning is,
Appointee of marital status!!!

Anthropologist of creations new madness,
Armful arousist!!
Arrogant aspirant!!!!

We are all baggage carriers of used goods,
Bestowed to thy own selves thou ******* of crud!!!!!

Very few bonuses this time around,
For the metropolis hath gone broke and choked!!!

For oil runneth this deliveranth!!!

Bind thy own,
You biggot of brigaded quarters!!!
None to coincide with ,
No cognac love to filleth me with cocoa nestled swifts!!!

Engrossment of shufflers, greasers to seventies sneakers,
Esteemed of high retailer goods!!!

Distinction between euphemisms blame!!!
Highed tops to spindle games,

Atrocious calibrations!!!!

Such tiredness flees the crime felt page,
Who's enraged?

Refute novelties of javahouse breaks,
Wherein assemblers are all members of cafe corner states!!!!

Paxilheads to axlehead drinkers,

Some material like,
Some medicinal thinkers!!!

How much shalt one taketh before his psyche leaves reclusiveness all behind the robust tower!!!!

An overall’d uncle stabbed over homemade champagne drifts around the bend.
A commemoration quilt and the Adamsville population shifts around the bend.

There’s an old hymn torn out of Martha’s hymnal, an elegy, a black dress.
“These details seem important,” Preacher says in European swifts around the bend.

The rains come and wash away the things we bury, bodies and toy cars.
Lowlands become lakes and a lone, malaise blackbird lifts around the bend.

A boy, all elbows and knees, in corduroy everything, in the thick of it,
drives a truck with no wipers, no license, the stick shifts around the bend.

The homes with electric lose electric, and the newspaper floats off porch.
No news today, nor tomorrow these are philanthropic gifts around the bend.

The sound of your delicate voice still gently resonates in my ears, an infinite reverberation.

Sometimes I still feel your subtle, soothing, yet indescribably powerful and electrifying touch gliding upon my skin, reassuring me
that we will last a lifetime
and then some.

Now and then, a warm breeze swifts through the air.
A sweet aroma of calming familiarity, that only makes me think of you.

Often times I see little reminders of you;
bits and pieces of you that sneaked into my life that I had never noticed.

Every once in a while; a flavor that is closely acquainted with my under spoken tongue seems to find it's way back into my mouth, tasting like a sugary sweet, cooling and careless

piece of you.

Dear brother
It's been a while
Since I've had the
Chance to make you smile.

And I miss
The way it used to be
When we'd go
Driving; just you and me.

Blasting hours of music
Just 'cause we could
Screaming Taylor Swifts
"Our we out of the woods!"

Dear brother
It's been many months
Since the day that
You left us.

The promise you made;
Do you remember?
Saying you would
Often send a letter.

And our sweet mother
Bless her heart,
Still checks the mail;
It always tears her apart.

Dear brother,
It's me again.
I never guessed this
Is how your life would end.

The red, white, and blue,
Folded perfectly in
Mothers arms, for her son
Who's fight was true.

And the 3-volley salute
For the twenty-two
Too young in boots.
Twenty-two gone too soon.

Oh The 3-volley salute

-ARI

Standing in the middle of the street, the sky black and starless, it is late, but the night is filled with possibility as drizzling raindrops reach down to kiss our cheeks and noses and eyelids

I see nothing but you

My eyes locked tightly to yours, everything around us is still and quiet as more rain trickles down and a gentle breeze swifts through the air
We don't pay regard to any of it because the only thing that matters is the fixed gaze our eyes hold as our arms are fastened tightly around each other
We cannot look away, captivated by the other's presence

We are completely immersed in the moment when you finally open your mouth to whisper something softly to me

We both lean forward, letting the splendor of the moment take control, pulling us closer and closer to each other until our lips touch for the first time, forming perfectly to each other, molding feelings into the movements of our mouths locked tightly together
A voice cries out inside of me, aching with desire and composure, saying, "Never let go, hold me tight''

We pull away in a modest state of shock due to the enchantment of the anticipated and formal rendezvous of the two compelling and winsome pairs of our lips
Our eyes are once again riveted to each other, and twinkling grins have effortlessly manifested across both of our spry and inviting faces

I can feel the exuberance and elation of the moment beaming between us as your hands reach up to gently grasp each side of my face and your thumbs softly caress each of my cheeks
I could swim in the looming sensation and passion for eternity

Our lips meet again, my insides fluttering, slowly igniting with a feeling no words can describe, a feeling I yearn to seal into a jar for safe keeping and hold next to my warm and beating heart forever
It all feels intrinsic, natural, as if we have been doing it for ages
And I feel whole and beautiful, hoping we never have to let go

Kissing you is an easy thing, it feels comfortable, undemanding
It feels safe, making it seem we are one entity
Like we are two bodies with two hands and two pairs of lips but one soul and one heart
And I cannot help but wonder if this is the person I have been longing for and anticipating my entire life, dreaming of and wondering if we would ever meet

I cannot force myself to break your gaze or my body to move away from yours, feeling whole and beautiful once more

Our lips touch for the last time and then pull away timidly,
Longing for each other
Hoping to meet again

A bite of the nail
Three heartbeats
A stare then a glare
Four more
An empty parking lot
And flashlights
Blazing
Across the dust
A flicker of the lash
Doom doom doom
Again and again
Something swifts
Something drifts
Clockwise
In an unperceived motion
Something throughout the molecules
And particules
Underneath the thin air
Slightly above the tire prints
A feeling in the gut
In the brain
In the heart
Aghast by the ghostly ghouls
Shivers
Travelling
Through every pore
Unsnarling
Little towers on the back
On the neck
Molten faces
Figures
Mannequins
Melting
Molasses
Everywhere
A sick kind of sweetness
Strangling
Suffocating
With a smile
As wide
As the door
Opened
On the second floor
The one
That was never shut
That one
People claimed was open
Specially
Ocaisonally
But was only just broken

Free.
Running,
throwing myself into a free state of mind.
I have no worries.
I’m able to let go and escape.
The moon illuminates the Earth as I dance on the freshly cut grass.
The stars creating a path I decide to follow,
leading me to a welcoming forest,
It's midnight and I’m exploring.
I see a tree with dark brown bark and Earth green leaves towering over me,
it's calling my name.
I sit at the foot of it and look up,
In front of my eyes is this beautiful canvas painted with millions of stars,
The moon shining right onto the ground below me,
I find a sense of comfort and stability.
The chill of the wind gently swifts on my body as it wraps around me.
I stand up and think there is no place I'd rather be.

A trail on the ground,cleared of grass, just dirt.
I find myself in front of a cabin,
I smile,
This was someones escape,
A place to be free,
And dream.
And now I’m the one dreaming.
I'm free.