See Dick run, in the golden latterly years,
When past is gone, the future premieres.
Jane is a librarian, in the floral ruby days,
Sally is a teacher, in the tangerine phase.
Puff pursues orange butterflies in heaven,
And he and Spot frolic, in sunshine lemon.
Mother and Father reside in assisted living,
Where the blue jay to the moon is singing.
The language of our elders
whispers soft upon our skin.
We see it in the landscape of our lives.
Trees dance to it.
They pull the soul of life
from out the earth.
We will say the flowers grow.
We will say the winds blow.
But the truest words of our language
are the ones that we forget to know.
When we speak to our children
it is from the echoes that we hear.
Those soft sunbeams of birth
upon canyon walls.
Those fierce winds that bellow
down the halls of our lost heritage.
We are the nature
we feel separated from.
The wind is our spirit,
without the burden of time.
The sun was our vision
before we could see to rhyme.
We will always be together
in the heartbeat that is God,
and I will be upon your skin as sunshine
and I will be upon your breath as air
and we will dance upon the earth
to the music of languages
born before our lives were here.
Seen from the bruised sheets
the two open mouths of her shoes
(one face down and drunk
the other lopsidedly agape)
speak to him in groans and murmurs.
Her face smudges the glass
in the bathroom mirror;
she is squeezed into a jar of light.
Headlights strafe the curtains.
Her dress still clings
to the oily surface
of a hump-backed chair.
Her bright red plastic pocketbook
under its legs, dull now
in the dawn glimmer.
He hears waves crash
in an empty wine bottle.
She walks back into the room
her white slip dips into hips.
She is looking through walls
all the way to a small grave.
While she slept
her body dreamt of this
the night rowed her there
on a black tide.
Now on lights shoreline
she will not look at him.
She leaves quickly
before empty words
founder them both.
Here it is again
that feeling of uncertainty
the chaos calling me
Creates a storm within
Fierce and heavy
No god to blame
the entire weight
of my solitary condition
collapses me
My doing
My burden
Her hands were dirty
Stained with black ink
Eyes wide, deep, brown
Her name I do not know
Fingers bare
No commitments
She seemed so beautiful
the perfect amount of imperfection
I keep this feeling
Like any other
Inside, guarded
Afterward
I walked away
Alone
I always fail
at social situations
No friends
the world is lonely
She barely notices me
probably just enough
to see I am nothing
I'm sick of solitude
In need of someone
Something....
Ahhhhh!!
a cry of pure frustration
Longing for it
Wanting it so desperately
Feeling, fearing
impossibility