Motor mouths
clanging chimes

Open mouthed silence
speaks loudest

Poetical conundrum;
when to leave your ears hanging.

thinner than air
thicker than the tide of sleep

wonder and want

it lines your silhouette
moonlight makes your skin glow
dawn hurries to meet us
and your eyes are sunrise

i hear it pass from your lips
and slip through my fingers
your murmured assent
humming to the rhythm of the fan's rotation
clockwise
and your heartbeat, your breath
faster

it coats my tongue
your teeth
our throats
i can't get enough of the taste

our noses meet
our breaths mingle

your hands
in my hair,
your mouth
on my neck

a feeling floods me and as i drown all i can do is reach for you

******* soup through a straw
a hinged jaw seized up
we took to writing poetry

I found love in the most unlikely places
and the greatest of blessings in the smallest of things.

They wrote about you.
Named you Goddess and  
Lifted you high above the

Imagined boundaries of your
Spirit and ***.
No longer seeming as little as

You always felt. Well...
The rains came; you became
Umbrella.

Cinderella's indecisive cousin.
Wet now, and not in the
Good, hot way.

Workmen's sweat fresh from
Frustrated chests upon your ever
Forgiving back.

Heathens in the temple.
Berserkers in the
Cathedral.

Male pens, shovels and clamps
Made for grabbing and digging,
Holding up towards God's Skies

And proclaiming, not "Her,"
But: "Mine!"
I've seen it as it is.

Oh, I know. I've been a lifter.
Shoving goddesses into brick sized
Holes, praising the solid

Wall.
You deserve better. Take it from
Iron:

There is not enough
Gold in your
Life.

the only sounds, the sloshing of our jungle boots  
and a cricket symphony

the air affluent with the odor of  the paddies  
oxen dung, rice-rich stagnant water

a lone golden cloud I see has two lives--one in the western sky;
another on the water’s face

and it suffers two fates, in unison, as light fades, while sky
births crimson before it morphs to black    

in its silent death throes, I see the cloud melt from the heavens
but on the water its departure is less graceful    

blurred, convulsive from our mad marching, our soles slaughtering
a would be perfect reflection of  firmament