notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.

We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you,white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.

Fields lying miraculous in violent silence

fill with microscopic whithering
…(that’s the Black People, chérie,
who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid

and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs,where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.

Then you will slowly kiss me

moist moist  moist  moist MoiSt mOisT moIsT MOIST
now stop reading it, say it
                                                           moist
it's a weird word
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------

a storm is coming
  and I can smell it, feel it
     MOIST
on my skin- slick
it wisps into my mouth
  dirt patches aren't meant to be stoic

the storm approaches from the north, northwest
I am headed that way- north, northwest- approaching it
we have not yet converged but I can feel it
    moist
it tastes of dry dirt
not local
       nomadic

the clouds are foreshadowing --- foreboding
  parting only to show more grey
we have yet to converge but I can feel it
the grey
           the parting
                          the moistness
I am not yet there but I can feel it
  wisping through me
     I am not meant to be stoic
       nomadic

the first d
                r
              o
                 p

                     refreshing
I can feel it. really feel it.
moist on my skin. weird.
the clouds are parting
lightening [effect]       thunder [effect]       convergence [effect]
I am the storm; its core
  moist
            grey
                    parting
       ­                          wisping
can you feel me
                            approaching...

Trying to feel the thinness of air,
Running through your fingers like silk
Gently pushing around you in a soft embrace
Intangible tendrils wisping around your face
Ever present,
And forgotten

"Wagons East (1994) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0111653/ Internet Movie Database Rating: 4.7/10 - ‎3,545 votes (stylized onscreen as ‘Wagons East’) is a 1994 western comedy film directed by Peter Markleand starring John Candy and Richard Lewis. The film marked one of Candy's last film appearances although it was not his last film release. His last film, Canadian Bacon which he had completed before “Wagons East,” had a delayed release in 1995. The film was notable for its leading actor Candy dying of a heart attack during the final days of the film's production. A stand-in and special effects were used to complete his remaining scenes and it released five months after his death."

And it’s Wagons East!
John Candy’s last mega-bomb,
Released 5 months postmortem.
Alas, even the sympathy vote stayed home,
Reject the we-owe-it-to-him-for
“Planes, Trains & Automobiles”(1987, IMDB).
The role, like money in the bank,
Earning diminishing returns,
Yielding interest but losing value over time.
The myth of INTEREST:
Das Capital, 2015.
The Prime is at 0%,
Yet, Inflation soars at, well,
At inflationary rates,
Digit-pounding inflation,
Higher food & shelter prices,
Masked ever so cleverly,
So deftly obscured by benevolent gasoline prices.

“Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987, IMDB)
Meet Del Griffith,
An obnoxious slob,
A complete schlemiel
(Also shle·miel (shlə-mēl′),
A serene shower curtain ring
Salesman and tour de force.
A film illustrative of everything
We love about farce,
(Merci beaucoup, Molière!)
And love about any
John Hughes/Steve Martin collaboration.

Needless to say,
I watched “Wagons East”
On TV the other day.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
Will-o'-wisping in the ashtray,
Smoke from my first joint of the day.
The ashtray, a mosh pit carbonara--
Actually, an inverted exoskeleton dome--
One of dem big muthas,
I once free-dived for,
Offshore Mendocino Coast,
Back in the day,
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY . . .
(The French Laundry: Thomas Keller Restaurant Group, www.thomaskeller.com. Chef Thomas Keller visited Yountville, California in the early 1990's on a quest for a space to fulfill a longtime culinary dream: to establish a destination for fine --314 Google reviews · Write a review 6640 Washington St, Yountville, CA 94533 (707) 944-2380. Daily Menus - ‎Make a Reservation - ‎Restaurant)
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY
Paid beaucoup bucks for
Well-tenderized,
Sledge hammered slabs of illegal,
Black Market abalone.
Most assuredly, I digress.

So where else would I be?
My laptop was open & willing,
Legs spread, wet and waiting for
Whatever comes what may.
What came was a film
Earning pitch perfect
Dramatic chops for Candy.
We owe you, Del.
We owe you for this Anthem:
“You wanna hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I'm an easy target. Yeah, you're right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you . . . but I don't like to hurt people's feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I'm not changing. I like . . . I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get.”
But that was then,
This is now.
Wagons East:
A disastrous ****** bomb.
A vapid character jambalaya:
(1) A defrocked doctor
(2) A sagebrush *****.
(3) A queer book vendor.
(4) A Donner Party Survivor
Sounds can’t miss, right?
Or was it a classic Broadway/Hollywood sting?
Redux: “Spring Time for ******.”
N'est-ce pas?
Four *******
Heading east by wagon train;
Giving up on The West,
Heading east for Saint Louie,
Where freaks & geeks go undercover.
Down go their guards.
Camouflaging the chimera,
Transits the urban Wasteland,
Vast & nasty, as it were.

St. Louis, Missouri:
A much more tolerant
Hideout place.
THE WEST:
Just too much of
A hassle, I guess,
Too much for one’s
Flat-lined human mind,
Bored too shitless by
Buffalo turds to venture thought.
THE WEST:
Neorealismo italiano.
Complete Jolting-Joe reality,
A veritable wake-up call
Devouring any & all
Residual romantic fantasies . . .
THE WEST:
Struggle & Drudge,
Life lived west of the Mississippi.

Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Kindle (www.amazon.com) Books Literature & Fiction Amazon.com, Inc. Start reading Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Get the free Kindle Reading App or read on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? www.amazon.com

That’s right: another advertisement,
Smack dab in the middle of
Of the ******* poem!
My invention, by the by,
Putting herein another plug for
A preferred memorial gravesite,
The Shrine To Me!
Situated in Scituate,
(Always wanted to say that.)
Scituate MA (www.scituatema.gov)
Knowing my kryptonite crypt,
My not-marble-nor-gilded
Princely-monument,
Had no chance to outlive
This fakakta rhyme scheme . . .
The Shrine To Me!
My final resting place:
My very tony, exclusive
Sub Zip Code?
The South Transept
Westminster Abbey
The so-called Poets’ Corner,
Of course!

Which brings me to my true purpose:
My true intentions for you this morning?
To publicize the strange Case of
CHARLES ROCKET:
(Go ahead, ******* Google him!)
“Charlie Rocket, found dead in a field near
His Connecticut home on October 7, 2005,
His throat had been cut.
He was 56 years old.
The state medical examiner
Later ruled the death a suicide.”
And if you believe the Coroner,
A Medicine Man &
Master of Self-Interest;
If you give that sharp-dealing,
Proverbial Connecticut Yankee his due,
Then you will probably also think
That millionaire Robert Durst
Didn’t **** Susan Berman,
Even as we see him
Getting away with ******.
Again.

I'll seek refuge in places that don't hold my name to be true, and even in emptiness I remain wrought through heavy handed tones of antipathy

Echoes of resolute desire plea with somber empathy, but remain indefinitely beyond the horizon of which I can not seek - and I shall remain waiting for something that has yet to come, for good it seems..

It rings barren any semblance of genuineness, the shadows I fall under; in plighted qualms, through quarreled teeth; without strength to hold my own, my very soul becomes the ground with which they walk

Desolation is the staunch friend from which I may not doubt will never be there in my time of need; and what I truly need, I fear, will never set foot upon my gaze

Like a sullen rose barred behind a glass wall, bereft of life giving nutrients and slowly wilting away one pedal at a time: I'll solemnly gaze upon the last glimmer of hope what was once profound and pure, now gripped with agony, and sin; decaying, alone, forever out of reach with only my eyes and heart to embrace it, yet never once again know what it may feel like to hold close with my own flesh

I am surrounded by an unspoken emptiness; an infinite abyss in every direction, except forward - and to each footstep I hear an echo of its past, one more inch beyond itself and gone before the last moments incur what hollow life is left within

Each passing moment brings me further to the edge of the unknown, this hope that's guided me for this long has burned like an eternal candle, now wisping what light is left to bear before me

One step more, and into the embracing darkness I will fall unto

The cries of war are beginning to recess; the battle has ceased, and I am still without a place to call home

I am captivated by a thought of old
Yeller in the streets of Madagascar.
Shot me dead indeed for standing up
to digs of my deeds done wrong.

But what of his Sister, and did he miss her
for fiesta on Friday last~Until a droopy~eyed mistress crooned a ****~a~doodle~doo straight against the face of death.

They loved Prima, come subtle still life into the night.  Brought Passion'd brink of tears, thrown forlorn wisping shutter to my skin and I am Thought.. thinking I migh'nt be lost to soon to this moment mi'amour.

Charging hunted into the streets, taken by day or by night. Overrated artform of statuesque mystique, compendium of gods have struck me mortal and I am Death...dying unto pleasures infinitum.

Quell into question the material mourning, noon and night. Antidote to antithesis is Imagination...imagining everything in nothingness all at once...banging out existence, through the vacuum...all the way to Madagascar.

Take my place, take my bullet for me on the other end of old Yeller and I will take your end on the other side... of You ...being Me.

The days keep passing, don't they?
Even when I watch with my unblinking eyes
the stoic clocks that only emanate innocence.

Time passes slowly, here.
The languid ways with which the water careens
and sways
-and how even the air stands still
wisping softly between our fingers
and our hair.
The space between then and now grows
smaller, yes
despite the sorrow that comes with
dwelling and indifference.

And each day, I and the sun
will do that which is impossible-
endure
patient
ly

Breaking water, diving in with my body, head first.
Rippling seams and leaving stitches unfinished.
I dive in to let the purity envelop me.
Cleanse me and my pores,
return me to where I started from.
Release me from wars, unopened doors I wished I turned.
Forget wounds of battle on my skin.
Open me.
Cut me open and leave me bleeding.
Let my blood sink into the earth until there is nothing left,
let me walk this earth for miles and miles, let me feel the pain in my lungs,
the hoarseness of my being escaping from my throat. 

 Let me build a moat around my princess castle and then tear it down. Lightning strike me and rip my particles, rip the matter from me like guns on glass. Crack me and tear me.
I will get up again.
I will rise.
And Let me Sing,
Sing 
sing
  sing
until my prayers are whispers.
Forest water, reflecting green, serenity. 

 I have dreams of black claws like raven glass closing in, scratching me bare.
Howling and deep long nails and witchy eyes cackling like the darkness overlapping. The demons within closing in.
I hide from light, unaware of how I’m blocking out love from my life.
Is it just a dream what my heart has seen?
 Now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge along trying to remain strong when the forces pull and tear the ramshackle down to the ground.



I’ve been breathing and living, seeing so many things and it is this compilation of stories that warms my belly
yet it also tears my flesh.

The happiness is what breaks me.

Suspending the never-ending.
I am so close to the grave that I dug but I must keep walking past that linear line that I set for myself.
It is lines within circles. So many flows, I thought I chose the whole. Breathe. Pouring myself out into you. I wonder if I give and give it will fade into the soil and the bottle will empty. Melt like wax. Feed you and leave me. Is it releasing or is it unhealthy for me to give myself away?

I gave myself away.

I have strewn pieces of myself into everything I have touched but I am afraid that one day there will be nothing left.

Nothing left when finally I receive pieces of someone else.

"Excuse me," I would say "I'm not myself today" except that is a fools excuse, how obtuse, how can we not be ourselves, just being is being ourselves.

  The process of seeking deeper is breaking that boundary and that un-comfortableness.

Where did our love go? It existed between skin and bones. It was a facade or something else. I am not sure.

Not lust but colour, it was dewy green like steam from a coffee cup in the morning. Or the rain on the window pane while I slept in your arms and refrained from needing you too much,

It was in you're stride and the way you dressed in the morning it was in our hands when we held them or the way we danced together like two old lovers.

I cannot write about you without tears, write about your skin or your smile, and I am in a confined environment as I write this where such things are not acceptable. I am hiding on the paper,
escaping my heart.

I cried this morning because it was all too perfect.

I am cut open
perfectly imperferfect
I laugh at myself and this funny hole I am in.
Oh the pathetic-ness and the hilarity, when we slip in mud and are covered in filth
when we have nothing left but to cry and to laugh because we are crying because nothing in this world really matters or it matters all too much. Because I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t think anybody does.

We just muster our determination and passion, build up our bones, and we roll with it
Still there is an element of unpredictability no matter how routine we have gotten. No matter how far we have fallen
from our roots.

Excuse me for crying this morning, don’t worry I laughed it off after. I laughed because of life and laughed because I cried, and I cried because I love you.

And now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge on with all my strength. Wisping like whispers caught from the ears of children and passing through the world. Cold like ice on swing sets and little hands clasping them. Red fingers, red noses. Snot on mittens and sharp pain. Winter.

I Wisp like wind in water. I crack like stones of sand and rock. I break like waves on the shores of life. I cry like the trees who fight. Howling to the moon. I open when you call me. I close when I’m falling.
I hide like children at night. I am under the streetlight, orange, alley cats in shadow homes and grey cement, dead rats, broken bones. My eyes are bare, sunken in the light. I suppose I should muster my might. Find peace beyond my fight.Take my fists from sunken floors and instead beat on unopened doors.
Escape distress.
I wish you saw
something more.
I
   wish
          that there was
                        something else.
                                                    =====》Speedi­ng on.====》

Writing prompt of the hour: mandrake

oh poison, what poison doth whisper in my ear

race through my veins like molten metal

cause the hottest summer to season in my mind

echoes a terrible trembling in my tingling limbs

it is mandrake, oh such deadly shade of night

that raises me to the floor luring my knees to my face

in unequalled gross distortions

oh mandrake, thou art a shade so deadly

as to make the blackest night quiver

now this poison makes strange ineluctable rhythms

gradually and patiently enter my body, my thoughts

like a gradual orchestral cadence of static melody

subtly wisping around my whole being.

destructive mandrake now scampers in my blood

becomes inseparable and lives in me

in fiery flocks of hallucinated concepts.

it fires through my body like burning sulphur

this mandrake, this poison

that has prolonged persistence

makes an experience of antediluvian treachery

from another time, not of this time, this present, this now

this here

mandrake has embalmed me to

the red roguish clay

I die ghastly from a writing prompt

mandrake, mandrake, deadly nightshade

fuqing mandrake

i would like to play the trumpet for you
i feel i could breathe
the wailing of my soul into it.

i could play myself through this instrument
into consciousness
from this sleeping dream
into smoke from this flame

i could wisp and dissipate
like clouds in your eyes
can you see the clouds in mine?
or the dew, in the morning left?
i cant remember the rain
though i am drenched, i am dripping
every bit falling, drop by drop,
into a lake never quenched

before words, before television
you have always preceded
the breath standing at the crest of my lips
but turned, scared, naked
retreating, from the beach
back to the sea

where you close curtains
to my whale song
pounding at the door
unintelligible frequencies
on top of waves and across the sandy floor

i sink so low, shaking
chains shackled to the earth
i'd barter for the key
but the guards
they ask the trumpet from me
summoning vultures to my stomach
my burning coal punishment

for swimming so reckless
for weeping on the shoreline
because you and the rainwater receded
back into the depth of chambered winds
slipping like the valves from my fingertips
before the hushed tones of my non harmonics
my soul blossoming out of it
my song on every radio, every wax and needle
in the air wisping out

when you are not the sun
and not listening.

clouds in the back of eyes,
and sleepless nights.

Children, fresh as bib lettuce,
Green and tender,
Stand before me in my rocking chair,
Pearled new teeth,
Wisping hair, golden, brown,
Embarking up a stair way
That I am going down.

"Papa, can we go out to play?"
I look out the window
To see the kind of day
Before I say,
"Would you like to take a walk?"

The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

I gaze outwards, hoping to eye
the secret source of my amazement...

Such a subtle notion to be keenly aware of
my concentration whispering soft to me
like wonder washing over the clear eyes of a child.

Standing in the midst of a wild garden,
lost in thoughts and knee-high daffodils
rising to the occasion,
pacing the breeze in celebration
of concentric release and liberation.

The tone of my attention flows outwards
drifting in the vortical tumble
of wisping moments and spiral smiles
only a kissing kind of nature could spin
so effortlessly across the dusky horizon’s curving finesse.

Propelled into the Painter’s portrait of stars swept canvas
sweeping over my vision with the image
of the wonder-washed child standing in a garden,
gazing outwards from the picture quietly searching
for the secret source of her amazement…
..and I wonder if she sees me gazing back at her?

Strange ineluctable rhythms have gradually and patiently entered my thoughts
Like a gradual orchestral cadence of soft melody subtly wisping around my whole being
They scamper in my blood become inseparable and live in me
Flocks of hallucinated concepts
I become possessed of ever changing moods
The catatonic calm
The delirious frenzy
The ungovernable mania
My pleas, my questions, are ignored
I live
In wondrous chaos
In disturbed turbulence
In manic colors
In the the Darwinianism of shapes
I experience a feeling of high elation
A complicity in my adopted position
Intoxicated by the prospect of my duality.

Your shining eyes excite:
Those pupils, fathomless black,
That grab, and drag me down
Into bottomless pits;
Like magnets drawing me into deep radiance.

Your swirling, tumbling hair that makes me dream
Of cascading feathers wisping all over my face,
As leaning over you draw closer,
To kiss me with your moist, shimmering lips.

Those lips that pout their promise,
To cushion mine in hot embrace,
And pull me down a never-ending tunnel:
So deep to Ecstasy’s black space.

Your body is a flowing land,
A symmetry of mounts and vales:
Seductive wiggling curves,
With endless
Tapering
Legs.

Yet beauty’s bettered by your warmth,
For looks are just skin-deep,
It is your heart that I adore,
Your Love I wish to keep.

We should be soul-mates, you and I,
Of this I’m very sure.
With Hope, and Luck,
And not a little pluck,
Our Love can long endure.

If This doesn’t Pull her nothing will!

PAUL BUTTERS

I'm lost in the city
But I'm taking my time
The streets keep talking to me
They're asking how everyone can spend so much time looking down and straight ahead
When a whole world grows rapidly above them

Buildings grow into the stars
A new styled solar system
They dance among the clouds
Wisping fluffs of greys and whites
When I look, I know that I want to be where it all connects

I am gliding down hills
I am fumbling through crosswalks
I am slipping past street signs
because I can't keep my feet on the ground and my head from that new world

It is in the midst of strife
when the burden weighs most heavy,
your innards writhe and twisted;
the discomfort tugging at you so intensely
you cannot help but feel the tightness in your throat.

It is in the thick of this black mist
when your hands pick and pull
upon the wisping thread inside your head,
unraveling the rabble of cowardice voices
which spill like venom on your thoughts.

It is the unsettling notion
you are alone in a vast and empty ocean
sinking, suffocating and claustrophobic,
your mind is brimming, overflowing,
afraid it might just crack right open

It is knowing
these thoughts which come pouring
from that fractious bore inside your skull
seethe with undisclosed emotions
and their exposure to the air could crush you whole.

Will you allow this shameful wave
to crash atop you with all its galling weight
and drag you under grain by grain?

Or-

Will you battle back the coming storm,
standing above the surging tide
a rampart refusing to forfeit a single inch
of your distinguished shore?

I say battle.
Battle with the erosive waters rising inside you.
Battle knowing fully at first you are destined to lose.
The hero must be humbled
before others see him as the hero too.
So battle **** it, battle you glorious fool!

I hope* she teaches you the meaning of loving someone to death.
I hope you lose sleep talking to her, and then later that night when you can't stop thinking about that one thing she said, just keep replaying it in your head until sleep washes you into its sea.
I hope she brings back the faith you lost in people.
I hope you let her mess your hair up, even though you can't even stand the wind wisping softly through the strands.
I hope you memorize her favourite lines in movies and songs.
I hope hearing her cry makes you want to go to the ends of the earth to hear her genuinely laugh again.
I hope she's the calm to your storm and the colour to the, sometimes grey, life you lead.
Most of all, I hope you love her passionately, devotedly, selflessly, and without reason or hope.
Because then you'll finally realize, that's the way I loved you.

Bestowed whispers abound
wisping against softness;
an alluvium flows in abated
breaths, crashing into dreams
awaiting uttered sighs;
aching to taste prurience rage
as tongue besieges pout
of want, awakening soul;
melding into silky fragility
gliding across masculinities
plain, caressing in tender
fingertip forages as I'm
consumed within his essence...uncoiled

MEPHISTOPHELES. Make good use of your time! It hurries past,
But order and method make time last,
So, friend, take my advice to heart:
Hear lectures on logic for a start.
Logic will train your mind all right;
Like inquisitor's boots it will squeeze you tight,,
Your thoughts will learn to creep and crawl
And never lose their way at all,
Not get criss-crossed as now, or go
Will-o'-the-wisping to and fro!
We'll teach you that your process of thinking
Instead of being like eating and drinking,
Spontaneous, instantaneous, free,
Must proceed by one and two and three.
Our thought-machine, as I assume,
Is in fact like a master-weavers loom:
One ****** of his foot, and a thousand threads
Invisibly shift, and hither and thither
The shuttles dart - just one he treads
And a thousand strands all twine together.
In comes your philosopher and proves
It must happen by distinct logical moves:
The first is this, the second is that,
And the third and fourth then follow pat;
If you leave out one or leave out two,
Then neither three nor four can be true.
The students applaud, they all say 'just so!'-
But how to weavers they still don't know.
When scholars study a thing, they strive
To **** it first, if it's alive;
Then they have the parts and they've lost the whole,
For the link that's missing was the living soul.
Encheiresis naturae, says Chemistry now -
Moccking itself without knowing how.

I remember seventh grade
When life was wisping by
I remember how full my
Heart was
And how naive I was
I remember the fall leaves
Slowly dancing around us
Falling,Falling
I remember how
Peaceful it all was
And I remember how
Hard I'd scream and laugh
Whenever you gave me those hugs
Those amazing hugs
As though I was wrapped
In a snuggly cocoon
I remember how fun it was
To be your best friend
And how I loved you more
Each and every day
I remember our snowball fights
And how we laughed
I remember that mound of snow
And how I felt a spark when
Our faces neared and
Our eyes lingered
I remember running to your arms
With my declaration of love
And my acceptance to the idea of us
I remember the rain just two days after
The most beautiful drizzle
I have ever seen
And I remember running my hand
Across that pipe
Smiling knowing what was coming
It wasn't just my stomach with butterflies
It was all of me from head to toe
I remember sitting on the step facing you
And how a tap kiss scared me
And more made me jump back
And the most romantic thing
I'll ever know
Is when I said I couldn't out of fear
And you whispered "I know"
As you slid closer and kissed me
So passionately
I remember you and I
Falling in love
I didn't let you go
Because on that day
On all those days
You proved to me you,
You were worth fighting for
Your always worth fighting for.

i miss you like a lunar eclipse.
you dont cross my mind 364 days out of 365
but every four years
a total eclipse of my thoughts
occur

and on burning cold nights
lonely witching hour
does my mind wander so
remembering soft touches
and melting whispers
fleeting feelings
and lingering lips

frustration clouds my memories
like fog wisping across the moon
shadows and doubts created in its
absence that are
only visible once in a blue moon

RED is my left behind soul lingering through the wind.
RED is the balloon wisping through the wind whose freedom has no end.
RED is the taste of something so petrifyingly disgusting it should be a deadly sin.
RED is the taste of blood seeping through the cracks of your precious skin.
RED is the sound of the annoyance called rain clashing with your murky window pane.
RED is the sound of a love for someone so strong you couldn’t possibly explain.
RED is warm liquid slowly slipping out of your cold empty soul.
RED is the worrisome conscious of plunging into a dark hole.
RED is the smell lingering through the halls of a crime scene, where in which someone had to so viciously die.
RED is the smell of the tears you so desperately need to cry.
RED is the feeling of pain and desire that couldn’t possibly be compared.
RED is the paranoia of living forever that makes you so teeth-cringingly scared.

Damp, dead.
Springing to life under muddy soil,
The flowers will be here soon.

Skeletal branches claw the milky blue-purple sky,
Green mist beginning to coat their splitting fingers.

Biting cold and wisping wind,
The smell of wet earth and greening grass
More welcome than a smoking, fiery hearth.

Spring is coming, spring at last;
I had almost forgotten the taste of rain in the air.

Stone beneath my fingers, rough and smooth,
A rock in a field to rest against with a beautiful view.

The wind whispers the calling of birds
And the echoing cries of their mates,
The aviation coming north for a long stay.

My hair is whipped by the wind,
And flies from my face;
Fly away far,
Find your own flowing, rippling, grace.

Ice is cracking and rivers rushing,
Freed from their frozen imprisonment;
Fish are swimming and fishermen soon to be rowing
Across still waters clear and cold.

April has come to Michigan once more,
Breaking dawn in morning's cool air.
April returned to drive back the snow,
And Spring Break rides on its dove grey wings.

somewhere in my mind
a sky is full of kites
sunflowers blossoming on a hillside
fields of grapes, of my salt mixed with your perfume
my eyes drift across a canvas of waves
on which your warm feet have flattened grapes
into a sea diluted of sadness
stretching far from left to right
and wisping clouds above.
the heart follows timidly behind
approaching cautiously the soft strokes and waves
seeing each kite as an arrow
shot into the air by Cupid's jealous lover
as heaven's golden eye creeps past the mountain,
dips into the ocean
leaves this sky
a sweet, light wine; leaves me tipsy-turvy
while one can't help but believe:
loveliness is a vine mapped out within each
arms can hold, arms can drown
...I await yours.

'Twas such an iridescent masquerade
Upon the gestures all,
Flower guises floating freely about
This mansion chamber's ball.
Medieval castle tapestry dwarfing them
With the lofty hall,
And there arrive and vacate portal
Fading unto the wall.
A gateway whereas such events unique
When arrivals call
And departed bid final farewell from
This mansion chamber's ball.

Values grouped and danced entwined
All over the chamber floor
Gaggling, babbling, in glorious glee
Ever since eve silence tore.
Yet, one lonely soul biding his life
Blended within the wall decor.
Scanning masks inefficiently in the chamber,
Electing in mind to who adore
Then a rapping of energy is heard around
Tapping at the mansion door.
Spiriting masqueraders slide inside here
Ever since eve silence tore.

Inevitable capture of the silent statue
No longer blending of absent joy.
Given assortment of masks to be as play,
And being the ball's brightest decoy.
Wisping to and fro he goes to furthermore
Echo his mask and employ
Silent cartographers of party unto the wild
Festival masqueraders enjoy.
So this Napoleon of dance and sing aware
He twas nevermore of coy
Stunned as struck to his guise hiding inside
And being the ball's brightest decoy.

The accursed mask pried off at last
Hence he carried his glee
And surmised so to unhide inside feelings
Selecting the costume every wisely.
Those who fight of ownerright cause,
Grasping back unrightfully.
To amass the mask unto the masquerader
So inside they cannot see
Nevertheless, grasping suppressed he philosophized,
"Why hide the face? Let them see.
Life here today is an entire masquerade.
Select the costume ever wisely."

autumn skies and pumpkin pies.
great orange fields, large in size,
leaf turns to leaf as gold comes to see;
what excitement to behold, and how happy to be.
nippy air and extra layers of sleeves.
bitter cold air as my breath comes alive.
wisping away, fast deep into loving lives.
Oh October is here and I feel just happy!  
to be with everyone with hair blowing shaggy.
I love this time, and I hope i explained why.
it's these
autumn skies
and
sweet salient sighs.

I linger to dream
if only to touch you 'fore I wake
  
         that in the shadow of a sheet
         wisping night into day


    I might spy your face,
    blurred by its own echo
        and reflected to me in sleep

I require no company
save those that gather
'round the warmth
of my fire.
Late at night
hushed talk floats
in the chill air
like wisping tendrils
of smoke.
Faint firelight gropes
at the surrounding darkness
after imparting
it's warmth.
Hours burn as embers
and laughter flickers
like flames.

Simpler than it seems
a sighted gleam
a look of ease

drop of boundary
an infultrating light
wisping me off again

to where i began:

transcending

Now

not enough senses
for the amount of truth

What formulated this painful realm
in which indulgence is gain
and love brings pain

how distorted we see
the life we lead to be
when Mother shows everyday
the sun will never change.

I can't even begin to know where to start about life.
The depth of beauty and intricacy is this great big incredible- an infinite, infinite, infinite incredible. Sitting alone at home on my computer, trying to strike inspiration from one place or another, I always end up with a coffee in one hand contemplating how beautiful the wine glass to the left of my kneecap looks in the hue of light beaming in from the rainy grey bright- or I gaze outside and contemplate my warm protection from the cold and wet outside, wondering what would truly be better- this warmth? or the thrill of living and forced recognition of every step given by the airy forecast of the clouds wisping from my breath, breaching me from the shoe of my pants and the kneck of my shirt to caress the bare-skin of my spine and the calfs of my bony ankles?
and it's as if I have to choose, but I laugh when I realize they're both great big incredibles in themselves- the fluff of a book in my hand and a hot drink at my side as the floating water decides to come back to Earth- the melancholy of still-in-my-pajamas-and-this-is-one-of-only-two-days-off; the poetry of love and the poetry of loss and the poetry of all I desire to do but hold back- all of this brings me a comforting sadness. Life, life, life, life, life... thank you for loving me.