Sinews (day 811)

It’s a feeling that’s more than a feeling
Like an itchy elbow that cannot be itched
A recurring thought weaving its plans
Undoubtedly gently, so subtly urged
And nestled, and cuddled, and squeezed
Into a mold so earthly seated
Next to precious corners of life
That neither time nor obstacles hinder
Where no word plies this rooted fabric
Which sinews, taken from this same itchy feeling,
Are used to steadfast so strong a bond
So effortless a unison that does makes sense
That it feels good to be a part of
It’s a feeling that’s more than a feeling

In Your Teeth (day 805)

I’ve been watching you shift the ever blurring lines that hold society in check
Taking them in your teeth and letting the camera capture your raw moments of sex
I want to understand what it’s like to plan this desire like a premeditated killer
Drinking tea over strewn socks and dirty magazines in a black and white image

I never thought I’d hold your hand walking down this hall
Penis stuck between your legs and there isn’t even any kissing
I’m not sure I understand the lines being blurred here
For they exist singularly in figments of imaginations
Directed by lines of square adults and their best intentions for children

I’ve been watching you shift the ever blurring lines that hold society in check
As you walk away veiled in a cloak of mastermind and glitter
I’m not sure the intention towards my understanding and which end is right
But this is my effort to blur my own lines of this never ending puzzle

With Wings as Black as Night (day 802)

I knew I’d recognize you
Though you weren’t wearing your Wellingtons
It wasn’t hard to miss you for
Beaming proud was on your face
Your feet were wrapped in exotic fur
Bound by moccasins
That made your step about the grounds
Delightfully light and charmed
You wore about your head so gay
A red rose, pinned towards the back
Of your lady-hawk’s slickest moments
Black as night and long
I knew I’d offer you my arm
To waltz about to and fro
In the darkest hours
In the bright daylight
To the attention of our fancy
I’m not sure where I left you off
Or where it since began
But your sacred heart is telling me
To let mine go with wings

Projected Innocence (day 800)

I’ve lost a thought in memory
Rolling around in the dirty grounds
Muddy and scarred with obsolete treasures


This isn’t my sacred song
Dusted off as I pass over bridges
Projected innocence, searching and unmoved

I am within, locked but open
Clawing my way towards rivers edge
Forgetting the words to my only song

Agape (day 795)

No desire, no direction pointed towards
Or passion warming the hearth
With a listless presence, standing
Mouth agape, as bait laid carelessly
In a young child’s idle play
Ebbs at the sight of prey
Understanding, in the heat of noon
Dirt clouds seeking moisture,
Wild calls shan’t be pry thy ears
Shan’t whip thy conscience into curt action
That thunders in yonder distant hills

All rests timelessly
All accumulates that which old books,
Unactivated ceiling fans, and
Old couch-sofas in a sunbeam’s gaze
Collect, like passport stickers,
Green-rot below country home taps, and
Knots in old women’s backs
Seem to enrich all our lives in
Sweet mother natures precious stamp
Time which counts ever longer
Into agape county rancher-home scenes

Tea is served through the wire mesh
Swing door on a rancher style patio
With hard footsteps of stiff manners
And an old rocking chair
With one checkered cushion
While sun recedes behind
Yonder silent hills
Slowly rocking in the evenings breeze