13 hours in 23 years

20 days shy of seven,
from womb, over 8 years

this, the time of life
when halves realize their one

yearly yearning
for the one to walk through the door

annual aniticipation
for tears to fall no more

miner breathes at last
the other eye sees

dreamer endures the glass
learns from the trees

through battered bodies
life begins anew

through broken bones
I have finally found you

those terms, the omens,
connections made beyond this flesh

amazing smile was the spark
parched to reassure

January 25th completely confirmed
chill pill... will, the wings of our soul

from the soulmate and angel unaware,
halves gifted the chance to talk

three immensely overdue communions
to remember where we've been

13 hours in 23 years
discovering what is always within

Converse

The charge, the spark
that's lit this body aflame

Adrenaline spurring
a flight home...
The call's not too late

Let me see
that person on the other end,
for his words have felt me
up and down

Let me smell
his neck!

and whisper in his ears
with that voice
only reality knows

I will raddle this device!
choke its life away
trying to push myself
through the receiver

Wear me!

When you reach into your
closet tomorrow morning,
pull me off of the hanger
and wear me 'til I'm worn

When you walk past the
windows on your way to work,
pause and notice how I
should always be your fashion

Look at that reflection and
see how I'll wrap around you,
draped so well over your shoulders
and so snug in your thighs

You'll delight in the way I
caress your skin when walking
and how I carry you so well
in all the right locations

So don't discard me after wearing
me once, or forget me in your closet.
I want to be those clothes that
reek of your scent and have people
saying, "You always wear that!"

Salix tears

Under the bare,
thin strands of willow
with amber knuckles,
I was with you

Our souls danced
amongst tables of food
and feasting familiars

Rising from your own
seat with your parents,
you came to me

You asked,
"Don't I know you?"
"I hope so," I replied.

I whispered your name,
and you savored
hearing it from my lips.

You took my hand,
caressed it's story,
and repeated its tale

I knew then,
as I had known all along,
you were mine
and I was yours

We melted into each
other in our embrace,
losing all former limits

At that moment,
it was complete, our journey,
our fate, our love

The willow's fingers
wiped the tears from
my radiant complexion

I was renewed once
again by the unending
dance of our souls

Serenity

Ultimate simpatico

All of nature joins in
the communion of the souls

Blushing petals float upon
winter bleached flesh
from the gently stirred canopy
of spring laden trees

The same mischievous breeze
tickles bare skin

Though roused from the
cool young breath,
the sensation soon melts
in the warm caress of
the southern sun

Green blades and creeping herbs
cradle their fulfilling embrace

Reflection is found,
as though looking
in the rain remnants
caught in pockets of stone,
when their eyes meet

No longer two,
ever one

Distracted

Missed that ninth artery Sunday
Caught up in thought

Reflecting on the crooked tower
Seemed though it might bend over
and tip its receptor like a
gentleman's top hat in greeting

Surely it was a passing flight
torrid breath of the storm
leaving that pole acute

A meek and tall chimney sweep's
instrument remains erect
by the occasional road

The road taken that passed
the ninth artery Sunday
without ever knowing

Red went for nothing
Boxed circle meant nothing

Nor should it have when
there was no obstruction
no interference out of thought

Pulse jumped from the glance
in the mirror, reflection of the warning
Grin, puff of air soon followed

When they were joined

Republic

In proceeding to the
end of the land,
it was discovered
the drawbridge was up

Although it was posted,
the sight had to be seen

frustration, obstructed path,
delay, detour

Perhaps the backtracking
was neccesary
Perhaps it was needed
to see the sparks
collide with the passing pavement...
momentary fireworks
that were reflected at the end of the day
when reaching the end of the land

Self-fulfilling prognosis

Recitation, hopes in his performance run in a stream
of overused paint.  Too many layers, too many pricks
of stimulation and too much makeup on an aged and
tired actor deterioate the deception... it goes unseen.

Emotions lurking in shadows catch the light of day. 
Their vapors rise from a boiling vat, and their constant
tapping on his thin-skinned shoulder won't allow him closure.

They reach from behind to pull at the cords hanging
from his chest, ready to hurl him on the beach,
to be lost among the moist grains and salty laps.

Diversion is his alibi, until its bittersweet overrides
its sweetness, leaving poison on his lips.

He is not ready to be that one-eyed sharp instrument
thrown in the giant heap of cured vegetation grown
in the fields, hopeless for someone to find... nor is he
ready to be found.

Certainly he is to blame, as he sits at the table serving
his guests.  Long has he held this banquet and gobbled
and gorged. 

In delicate manipulation, he has contrived hollow satisfaction
and plays the part, being ignorant or choosing not to know that
the main course of the dinner is his heart.

In silent reclusion he revels, as he passes by admirers stoning
him with praises.  He graciously bows and performs,
continually dismissing progress and passes through phases.

No rest... no peace, anguished voices will not cease.

Memories carry daggers that mangle the present
and his empathy of the past continues to evolve,
which doesn’t allow access to the here and now,
as hindrances accumulate resulting in absent resolve.

Never mind his pitiful state... he’s content, for now.

On paths of long ago he abandoned deference, burying
the remains in a shallow grave and repeating his ancestors’
deeds... he has yet to return, retrieve and restore.

Meanwhile occupation of his time consists
of rutting around in shit, anticipating the shiny,
brass key but only finding small helpless globs of potential...

The larvae suit him, explaining his agitation,
as they sit atop the hill and bellow out insults,
judgments and fragmented puzzles
that fall short of comprehending ears.

Communication usually escapes those with wet wings,
as he cannot fly high enough to reach those soaring truths,
only to flap around, on the ground, where the lies are bound...
entangled in the mangled carpet of the turf’s roots,
there his words are bound.

What will correct his question mark posture...
what will draw him away from this focus?

The particular beating organ he holds in his palms,
he reads its story repetitiously as the shaman reads
the goat’s entrails, hoping for a better omen.
Give him a blue heron flying from a running course
of water or a snake on the road instead of those flies
that hover over his carcass.

Those messengers of Beelzebub are lured in
by his radiant, rank putrefaction.

He never once thought of himself as a pond in the pasture,
usually a tide, or a river, never that stagnant, algae rich,
cattle toilet out in the grass. Somehow, he found himself
looking at his own reflection in the green water,
as bloodsuckers from the air and under the surface latched on.

Standing in his own soiled discourse,
he raises his chalice of feral yearning and states,
“Cheers to that which doesn’t kill us...”

Someday he’ll be one strong son of a bitch.