Stagnant

Bitter water,
so easily disturbed
by the slightest trickle
of wind
rolling
from the cool front
of late summer,
sits calmly.

The last
of the mosquito eggs
have hatched-
leaving behind,
in the small pond,
a foam of transparent casing.
This decays,
shells of origin,
descend
into the murky sediment
of aged water.

Sour refreshment
to the passing inhabitants
of the abundantly sweet forest.
The last of the
summer berries
fall from their bushes
and fragrance the pond.

Change
comes to this still
encampment.
Spring wishes
and summer crushes
evaporate
in the rays of the August sun,
but still
stays the water.
It has no where to rush,
and no mind
for worry to hurry
over its
perpendicular
and cockeyed existence.

Tired Body

It's that point
in my day
when my body
takes a deep drink
from drowsiness,
and my mind
counters
with the subdued introduction
of it's own
self-prescribed
draft
of caffeine.

Caught in
this deliberate torment,
my body
splits itself
into two different bodies.

Muscles
don't tear
in neat lines.
Bones splinter
and ligaments stretch
until everything
snaps and frays.
Contemplations
commence to be contempt
with one another.

Which body am I?

Do I claim
either
of these two ruins,
or shall I take
these last
remaining grains
of wood
and build a new home
in the vacant lot
of some
far gone
soul?

Natural Hunger

Even to a beholder's
eye,
the sensationalized
sticky serum
of desire
and the
slippery
wax coating
on lust
aren't visible.
The blind
do not
have less
yearnings
to be
completely
saturated
by
mutual accompaniment.

To know
even the slightest
morsel
of love
is to abandon
the salivating
sounds
of another's
voice.
Tender is
quiet.
Even those,
who cannot hear,
find themselves
acknowledging
the sizzle and pop
of their hearts
as they cook
over a warm
reception.

Fires blaze,
but the heat
of these
burning bodies
do not begin
to sear
the surface,
melding together
the succulent
meats
of two lovers.
The joint
of these two flavors
consummates
somewhere
within the
bodies'
chemical stores.
The measurements
and ingredients
are guarded
secrets.

Silence
wafts the scents
of communication
from
muted mouths.
The mind knows
what
the tongue
won't produce-
taste
still transmits
the spices
of complimentary
beings.

Together,
though
the nerves
don't know.
A mind,
however,
cannot withhold
from itself
the fuzz
of a peach
or the nectar
that flows
when
a bite
is taken
from pleasure.

Comfort exists
when all senses fail,
as long
as minds
don't abandon
their innate
recipes.

Statisfied

When did we become

tangled
in trying to remember
what matters
more
if
-as a whole-
it is
a complete
waste of time
when we know
to expect
nothing more
since we are
already
stuffed full
of all that we
need.

Phantom Visitations

At night,
with the lights off,
the door closed,
and the curtain
pulled down below the window;
my thoughts
chassé from my mind.

In the light,
that escapes
from my digital alarm clock,
I see their
naked
white wisps
of bodies
dance
in the still
of a dreamless room.

Instead of dreams,
I see poetry
come alive
from the hands
of these
heaven-heighted
spirits.
Their handwriting
is elaborate,
flowing in flourishes
that typeset
has yet to
replicate.

It's hard
to collect
everything
from these walls
while the room
is still en-caved
by darkness,
but I know
the second
I move to turn
my nightstand's light
on
the poems
and their
shimmering bodies
will vanish.
As they race away,
I race
the onset of sleep
and late-night-forget-fullness
to copy
everything onto a page.
I wish I had
a candle.

It cannot be enough
to watch the
nimble bodies
extrapolate
meaning
from their fingertips
by myself,
but even
my ghost
emotions
are shy.

Fall and Recovery

The Fall
I started
dangling my toes over the edge
slowly inching out
until balancing
meant fighting for stability
and I lost interest
in Earthly security.

I never breathed properly
until the air
forced itself
up my nostrils
and exhalation
became
my freedom.

I counted the feet
then the seconds
three
two

The Bottom
It didn't hurt
as much as you think
to hit
and have
resolute affirmations
break apart a body.

It's cold and moist
and I think
some of these sharp rocks
were actually part
of my once accepting
countenance.

I'm shattered
and shivering,
but I feel a comfort
in this metallic
state of gray.

The Rise
Really,
I am a person
and this is a pond
and it was only
a rock I descended from,
or am I tricked into seeing this
from the mirrored abyss
that ripples
with the cast of a fishing line?

Hook in mouth,
tug tight,
make sure
the metal ridge
punctures the uvula-
life won't let you go.

I cast myself
as far away
as my imagination could manage
and when the
line
became taught
as I reached the furthest land
-from sanity-
I felt
a distant self
retract and reel.

I am being pulled from my throat
back into life.
I am choking
on my own blood,
but I'm choking.
I haven't,
despite my irrationality,
stopped trying
to be,
even if being
-for some moments-
means living
existentially.

Pretentious

You'd think
she was privy
to the
sun's
brilliant thoughts
and that
only
moments
ago
she dined
with her
in the shallows
of the moon's
garden.

Reckless Poem About a Flower

You are a flower
at the mercy of the sun
and are the center of the clouds
rotations
or
is it
that you believe yourself to be
in the center of the sun's rays
and beg for mercy
from the clouds
who periodically
reign down
with relief?

How do you stand it?
-all the time-
your stems straight up
with a head of petals,
such an ornament
is no light weight
to carry.

You can't run away.
I'd uproot
if I could,
but that's a lot
of shoes to find
and fill.
How does it feel down there?

Which is better:
The rain falling
and sliding down
your green cuticle
or having a shower
of water
that directly sinks
down to your
varicose roots?

I am a flower,
not a rose
or a golden sunflower
or any one of those
species
that like to catch
people's attention.
Call me a bush
or a shrub
and that's what
I am,
but I am not

I know nothing
of the flower
as I separate
it's young body
from the black
partitioned container
-it knew nothing
more of the world
than that,
by the time I
dug it's hole
-it's new container-
into the ground,
watered it
and
surrounded it with
soil.
Does it know anything
besides
itself
now?

Would you tell me
if you
did?

I'm not a plant,
but you are a flower
and I wonder about you
-too much-
I am thinking
and writing these thoughts
on the bone of my brain
while driving.

You are you,
being a flower,
and I being me,
am speeding down the rode,
because I forgot
to slow down my questions
and ask you simply
about being a flower
when I had the chance.

From the Porch of an Old Plantation House

The white tips
of the high
green grass
bend in the breeze
of an
otherwise still day.

It's you
running past
and through
that bends the tops of the grass
in prayer
"God, please don't let her leave."
or
was that what I said
as you ran away through the field
after the clouds
you said
looked so free?

The skin around my elbows
itches
from
the tops of the high
green grass.
I chased after you,
but you never looked back.

I am reminisient
as I look out on the field
behind the run down farm house
we called Home.
The high
green grass
with its white tips
still shows your path
Out.
I'm tempted to once again follow,
your indentation
in the bent over grass,
but I need to start fixing up this place
so if ever you are to turn around.
I'll be waiting
with a plowed field
and bouquet of grass
to welcome you
to me,
at last.

Black Ice

There is a snow plow
in my mind.
It follows the routes
carved out
along my cerebral cortex
catching thoughts as they fall-
pushing them off
until later.

I've asked the driver
to kindly give me peace,
but the storm keeps
getting worse.

Snow drifts back from it's piles
onto the icy road.
The truck runs out of salt
-I'm sliding

My head is a snow globe.
To shake away a thought
is to let others loose
in the whirlpool
of consistently gray matter.

It's gray outside and in.
I sip tea to keep me company
A few blankets keep me warm,
but my brain
is far from being thawed
by the fireplace.

I am stuck in a crystal palace
of fluffy imagination,
icicles,
and slush.
How do I keep my footing
watch my head,
and stay dry
in such a blizzard?

Exhale and some thoughts
leave me
-"Water vapor"
I think-
and the snow packs in tighter.

Do igloos collapse?
What is the best advice
you can give me,
for out running
an avalanche?

I know how to ski,
but I lost my courage
hearing the sound of ice
cut against
strips of fiberglass.
I imagine all types
of tragedies.

I can't even skate
if the ice
is beneath feet of snow.

The snow is up to my waist,
and past my shoulders.
It reaches over my head-
Slowly my body
succumbs to the cold.
One last,
conscious breath,
and hibernation will replenish
and restore me.