my one

( A collaboration with Angie, her words in bold)

Our story began unexpectedly in autumn, 

the jazz of fall awakening me 

with the sway and shimmy 

of its bright notes,

something as magical as your 

written words.

What becomes of shared words. Who is 

on the receiving end. Did I already hear 

a calling before there even was one. 

Autumn reached into us with her 

mystical powers. 

We knew nothing of it yet, but we were 

headed straight for each other.

Words danced off our tongues, a tango

between lusting lips. No longer could I

ignore the pangs of desire, the thirst 

for your venom. Spring arrived then 

and I realized your telson. 

Love unraveled me completely. 

I became undone.

Engaged. Entangled. My heart began to

open up. Within the flood of possibilities

came the realization that I was already

submerged in Love's force. 

Bubbling up and bursting within me. 

Hungry sex and jovial companionship. 

I was tenderly accepting this 

voracious need for more. 

This gift. 

I simply    wanted    you.

Immersed in you, I thought of Us,

a constant daydream of possibilities, 

life with you. 

My heart gushed 

with newfound feelings, 

swirled by the wisdom,

how fresh love is a gift,

redefining the one.

How you are 

my one.

My One, let's be 

daydreamers together,

Let's become Us.

One in the same, 

this heart of mine 

and this heart of yours.

There will be no end to Us

only new beginnings, a new

permanence through the 

ever-changing seasons.

Love... the celebration is

now

and everlasting

Image credit from top to bottom

Image from fotowalls.com

Image from izistep.com

image from unknown internet source

Image from bloody-hands-veins.tumblr.com

journal-16, hammering nails

it doesn't take much to become blinded by monotony. to be lulled by the routine of things. over and over again. like the hammering of nails. you set one more upon the board, and with lassitude, you strike the top. trying to keep it all in place. trying to keep the attachment. trying to hold it to form

I never learned how to build a house. but at times I could muster up the knowledge of putting small rooms together. little places to stay. even for just a short while. until the tearing down began. the moving on. the deconstruction of one space before the reconstruction of another

the smallest room I can remember is a confessional. how I fit so many sins into that stall is still a wonder to me. I was not the worst of boys, but I felt the judgement through the screen of the sliding window as the lumbered breathing of an overweight priest set penance upon me. curious... how it was always the same. ten Hail Mary's and an Our Father. he never changed it up. like it was protocol. a scripted response. as if the severity of sin never mattered at all

I am wise enough now to keep my sins much smaller. I don't have to be told, or scolded. and I've forgotten my prayers. I stare into the nighttime skies and forget about constructing rooms. the claw of the hammer extracts the nails. the boards come down. my house is vast and ever expanding. shapeless. discordant. and decorated with exhilarating variety

(Image from jimburns.org)

winds of wishes

are we of those

glowing sparks

the most of whitened 

wishes in the wind

the slightest of touches

exaggerated...

bear with me, this,

the longest April.

shall we unite

in a forever bond

shall we give forward

our offspring, Pleasure

pushing and pulling out 

the gush of Love

something dear and true,

something to be cradled

or be saddened with the

deflation of two hearts

that have expired into those

winds of wishes...

the well of myself 

has become

deeper than I'd imagined

(Image from flickr.com)

(prompt, second nature)

just a second, Nature

slow down for a minute

please, wait for me

but the fields of wildflowers 

grew at their own pace

and the rivers cut through

the body of the forest

so I sat 

like a doting pebble in my

unmoving consciousness

and granted this 

infallible song its

duly deserved spectator

(Image from mountainphotography.com)

7th grade doubt

I'm still full of 

7th grade doubt, 

the way she 

looked at me 

and then looked away 

from that point forward

I never felt that I ever

had a chance.

years blink by,

mistakes clink together

like empty bottles

thrown into the

recycling bin.

that doubt still follows me

no matter how fast I run, 

no matter how far I go

and no matter the pace

and I'm still shy below

the bluest of skies 

in the yellowest of suns

the way she looked that

very day...

(Image from saatchiart.com by John Carlson)

journal-15, caused by fractions

the moon is in its cool vibe tonight. a semen-swirled drop of silverness upon the black depth of empty. a battered resilience in the foreground of despair. I have a shadow in the darkness. my flesh feels strange. I linger about, or loiter, somewhere between both

there's friction caused by fractions of thoughts disassembled from the whole. mount the mighty monster of chaos and disturb the status quo. this is just another breathless hour within the trip. I'm malnourished, feverish and cramping. unforgiving climbs higher the tide

sentience comes at a slower pace. a softer glow behind the initial burst of daydream delight. I left my shoes in the car to feel the earth beneath my feet. liquid, hard, grainy and mossy. I am wet with it and blistered. and I wouldn't have it any other way

there are no completed poems in my pocket. just random ramblings and meaningless lines. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. what's the point. I'm naked for no reason other than to watch myself age

and what good is another word from me upon another page

(Image from art-milan.com)

journal-14, pathways and bridges

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

crash and burn. another victim of circumstances. some are illusions. some come wild into a long hour's intrusion. the ones I hate the most are the ones that reveal themselves to be true. those blushing guests making their fashionably late entrance to the party

starlight in soft midnight. a whole heaven full of pathways. bridges. synapses. I lick the glue of a metaphorical envelope and send another dream on its way. there are millions of them. billions of them. and who's to say which ones are opened. and who's to say which ones are answered. and who's to say which ones just keep floating away

here I am, dulled, below half a bright moon. half of me is rotting in the belly of a beast. half of me is blooming in a prisoner's garden. all of me gets carefully attended to. and loved in different ways. and tortured

most of this life remains unopened. I'm just now starting to find a few keys here and there. her kiss. their laughter. the open mindfulness of solitude. I am revived by each one. resurrected in them all

its subtle, the transformation from one minute to the next

sift

spasm of delight

upright, to tilt

and fall

the splash of crumbling

into random white

intensified

soft hands

sift

whereabouts were you

whereabouts was I

underneath it all

or above

circumference of care

inner circle of warmth

and tongues that were

sucked within kissing

(Unknown source)

ashes, ashes

too young to know 

that the reservoir was 

filling up 

before realizing we were 

starting to drown

oblivious to the fact 

that red means stop

  red of blood

  red traffic light

  red scream of an 

  insect's wings

  we drew the blood

  we blew the light

  we ate the 

  body 

  between the wings

dreaming among the roses

involuntary doses

of rapture

in azure

until we all left town

(Children's dances by Hans Thoma)

high

dead bird on the 

entrance ramp to 

the highway,

some lives are as 

high and short-lived

as a shot of alcohol

I want a house 

with high stairs

I just don't want to 

have to use them,

stairs are pretty

but I hate stairs

somebody drew a dick

high up in the sand 

below the dark houses

but no one was around

to witness anything

anytime I get too 

high on myself

I head out into Nature

and let it 

reduce 

me

the trees laugh smugly

from high above

(My photo)

 

journal-13, magnet pulled

I'm creating my own compass. magnet pulled to midnight plus five. the haunts. the dreams. the roaming. the desolation. the dead laughter of silence. the intense eye of wonder. abandoning the process of navigation. scattered purposely. across and over and throughout

I wear a dream-hat under a rose-blush barren sky. words make up my gumball-machine head. gaining numbness to this ill-tranquility. if morning streaks gray across the horizon... if I die today... let it be in your arms. falling into familiar. that fleshy open casket. comforted by your pulse. dancing in your light. a gleaming bare of preciousness. innocence restored. spontaneous gaiety. unaware and uncaring. that will be my new direction. my new destination

there are nights lived wildly. barely alive at all. seething. bound in starvation. where true love is self-sustained once the seed has been planted. I carry my infant ego back to you for nourishment and fine-tuning. a novice at this strange instrument. born so unprepared

or born was I at all... perhaps just carried forward, or gently pulled

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

slow burn

there are many deaths

in each lifetime

bind the day

and stone these thoughts,

slow burn green into

deep smoke

up ahead 

the hallucination lifts like 

morning fog

and hovers between 

sun and land

I was on my way to

the field of flowers

over the hill and

into the valley

far away, 

so very far away

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

the grass lies flat

the grass lies flat behind

the tree line. a memory

moves in rhythm to the

sway of branches above

faintness of breath as 

an alibi, shared. 

sweetness surrendered

in mild apocalypse

come and go, to and fro

these ebbs and flows. a

timeless pattern too relentless

to steady the season

dissipate into the night,

an ache as thick as loss.

quandaries swell in blindness

as distance takes its toll

(Image from ourartworld.com)

 

journal-12, into the ambush

your ambient light gathers me. one small footstep into the breeze. unsteady, steadies. falling, falls. and upon touch... resurrected. because hardships are still beautiful if you can take the pain, separate the experience. I consider this a learning. the result, self-evident

ice blue, the tempest. a summer of cold heart. running like thieves before the theft. greedy, into each other. acrobatic attraction. dance-flower pollination

we'll make sense of this at another time. bury your head in me, I am sap-soft and carved out. nuzzle into my neck. take a deep breath of this aroma. ( and I did. and my lips trembled. and my lungs burned with appreciation )

I will travel south with you. as deep as we can go. into the ambush. the glass forest of mirrored selves. familiar strangers, and forgotten

we shall never part

nor become cannibals at our own feasts

(Image by Karl Persson on trendhunter.com)

threads

shall the pulling of

one loose thread

pull our entire world 

apart -

ambivalence is a

slimy creature weaving

warp and weft through 

words -

sliding my tongue 

up and down her back and

groin to neck to groin

brings peace -

love is art is love,

a continual creation

inspired by a connection

that's inexpressible -

(Image from sew-over-it.blogspot.com)