When my body can't take it anymore
I go into the closet- not to pray, but to worship;
I kiss the complacent coat hangers there, orderly on their metallic racks,
My lips on smooth plastic; eyes closed,
All senses centered on my mouth;
Enraptured, I can't see any colors at all..

The surface doesn't soften, as I beat out my lips
Against the mild anvil; altar of pain, loving the more distant you
Somewhere on a compass that the heart knows best;
This pain is merely a devotional exercise, to take my mind
Off the fact that the hangers can't actually kiss me back.

The wool blazer has your blue eyes;
The polo shirt has some, not all, of your softness.
The shoes delicately waft a heavy, calming manly odor of leather.
The weight of the clothing leans back against me, sighing
And muffles most of my cries and exclamations

While I sway, to their soapy limerance of fabric softener and dust.
If I push far enough into them, they enclose me all around
Just like a lover's firm grasp, of aching seams and  straining stitches,
Loving me soundlessly, from many directions at once.

To silent, undanced waltzes, we hang together, in furtive salute;
For they are not free, and neither am I;
But we can dream together, in the small cottony, worsted room,
For we are old friends, we have known both sunshine and rainshower together

And long, undying afternoons, of tears and questioning why.
They have known many of my beloved's names,
And I in turn have seen them both inside and out, plush and threadbare.
We have no secrets any longer; I know their every scar by heart
As well as they know mine:
I can never discard even one of their kind,
I have to keep them closer than skin.

Hindered by the need for practicality,
The song that longs to heal the world
Remains unsung.
The steps that would have mended broken spirits
Remain undanced.

Blinded by the need to see reality
The cotton candy dawning clouds
Turn stormy gray.
The breeze that eases all the doubt and fear
Grows into a howling gale

Deafened by the clarion call of duty
The cries of broken little birds
Cannot be heard.
The words that float on images of grace and beauty
Remain unwritten.

Stunted by the evil of aphasia
The verses that could have lived forever
Lie entangled on the tablet.
The Laurel wreath that had my name on it
Lies now withered on the floor.
                  ljm

From a ripple to the roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
With songs unsung, memories unseen,
Moves undanced, sights unblinked.
They riddle through a riling heart,
Languishing the clod of infinte memories,
Leaving behind a trail in oxblood,
On lanes of the suffering they imprint,
Never-failing pillars,
A Niagara of ambition,
Struggling and chasing,
The ring road of passion.

In this passage of arms,
The wants and these cries,
Shall put up a fight,
The first of its kind.
Moving every mountain,
Warming stiff snow,
Freezing the unforgiving fire,
Chocking the unmoving souls.
With a focus down unshaking roads,
They shall create a nexus,
With the nimbus, the whole universe,
To provoke the storms,
The thunder and the tides,
To hold their arms, to stay on their side,
In this endless unfailing ride.

With the mantra of victory,
And horse-like sight,
They come marching to lead you,
Down this one one life.
But in this march of time,
Through the years that crawl by,
Every road that you take,
Clinging onto dreams you've always dreamt,
Shall engulf a mist--
Some cocainic smoke,
That sting your eyes as they behold,
Your graceless retreat,
From closing doors.
Those million desires,
From burning heartaches,
Shall freeze and founder,
Fall and break.

Only leaves of paper,
Made by a dry-eyed stranger,
Doping human wants--
Most passionate minds.
Rendering them coarse and dud,
Cloudy and undone.
These leaves, they decide it all.
Your breaths, your wants,
The heartbeats, your wish grants---
The forest,
The ones who have most,
Shall foreshadow,
They can foretell,
The end of the roads they choose to take.
And those who have fragments,
A passive flow,
They know not where this journey,
Will allow them to go.
And yet they fight!
They give up their all!
But alas!
In this clientele of cliche,
Will breathe a cradle--
Will live the neverness of the niche,
That bears, where blooms,
From a dying ripple, to the fading roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
That will not live,
Oh! They die so slow...
As the pillars fall,
The Niagara runs cold.

here we are, in this diner
beer and a watered down cuppa
i wonder if it's always gonna be
like this for us
shoving sugar packets in my pocket
leaving table with no tips
and a sahara of spilled sweetener
- it has our ways on it -
i wonder if norm is normal anymore
when dolce vita
dolce far niente
and it's abnormal doldrums
go out the window
like goes a roach
or a gum
no end to ur tainted fury
in this freeway kingdom
any dreadful shawarma joint is stuck with
our initials tagged on the loo door of it
while these children of fortune
from the supermarket lot - they are bored
dancing moves undanced before, by any
i wonder why here& now
                  why in bronze
                  why us
      why in some little random church
goose gone stripping
for the bad luck of ours

Death would not stop
coming on the dirt road
of undanced goddess.

God of sins waits.
Light refuses to enter
the eyes looking at sky.

The beehive spills
to make you human of
vanishing tribe.