Be a lover,
Be the greasy spin
Of mind in madness,
Spiral and sway
Of clouds and trees.
Be the cheap section
Of a good time song list,
And missing strings
On a good sounding guitar.
Be a warm evening
As buzzing whips of
Crackling cans opening,
And a creaky lawn chair
Hopes for strength.
I’m turning over a new leaf
– Budding spirals green in depth,
Spring’s warming showers –
My lines have turned
My shadows shifted
My inner bark has begun to stretch
To where my roots know how to find.
This heart of mine has slept and drank
My eyes have wept and cleared
New toes of length have wiggled free
For today I continue blossoming.
Your heart rings on the bars of my faint memory
Tingling windows that never seem to open right
While lights flicker from unknown sources
As if silent messengers in night’s sky.
I touch my lips and think about a sensation
Once so familiar to my heart that it left an ocre mark
And scalded the new moon twice since
Leaving rays of blood light shifting my reminiscence.
I cannot wait here long, for leaves follow my mind
Upon a downward spiral to freshly rooted dirt
Awaiting new seeds of our ancient memory
And lifting lines that varicose their way back to my heart.
Crispy wallows and snakes following ancient trails down spirals, leading only to a perfectly spherical, blood-moon-packed dirt bubble where one thousand and one perpendicular lines scarred concave smoothness, remarkably resembling an eerie odessical scene of Labyrinth, David Lynch infused simplicity and snakes. With an omnipresent light leaving no shadows, even in such depths, that echoed with every heartbeat snaking it’s way downward, downward, downward until the downward was no longer downward but stuck in a simple sphere, simply circled as if snakes and ladders were suddenly trapped in an empty crystal ball bubbling with misunderstood and toppled (read:shook) reason that inhabitants were too impatient to digest, leaving perpendicular marks in frightened terror as retraced steps traced their snaking along ancient trails back into the under-root of an atmospheric tragedy they had become familiar with and called home.
This takes time.
Your neck scratches
Twist heroin like
Spirals towards starlight.
Your heavy steps
Nick solid wood,
Pick pocking veneer
For random acts.
Your tight lips
Close proud moments up
With smeared lipstick
That’s left on
Too many strangers.
This takes time
To get this way,
And it takes time
To step out.
I could date your exposed breast
Swim along the raw curve of your crest
Dance nimbly with the lightness in your toes
Forever fight away your foe
I could climb the arc up to your neck
Delightfully covering with sensual pecks
Draw circles in a downward spiral
Delight upon your navel
I could fall beneath your back
Hands held lightly in their attack
Your shoulder blades holding my thumb
Down the center towards your bumb
I could live in here forever
A desire exploding like fever
Setting in to depths untold
Light spaces behind me unfold
The sun slowly drips its honey across my face
Sweating out last nights essence with tea
I hold the governance of all things unsaid
I will not bear the shame of almost was
I will not hear the un-named called on the hour
When dogs will scurry into their unmarked graves
Calling like the coyote into the night
With an uncontrollable longing for what is lost
What is gone, and what has been forgotten
The spots of glare fascinate this glossy mind
As it winds its way through the spiral of decay
Memorizing the lines of an old Hemingway poem
Like the underside of a frequently-thumbed sack
And no, there will be no last dance as the wind hits my back
There will be no sweet romance with the birds and the bees
While the clock slowly ticks it’s monotonous rhythm
However long shall thou steal away into the night?
Long forgotten whispers remain seated on the knit of my brow