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.