People have always told me.
“Never throw stones in a glass house.”
I never understood.
I don't understand idioms,
They always contradict me.
Don't throw stones, but break the glass ceiling,
Get off your high horse so the ones in your ivory tower can't see.
You can't change what doesn't make sense.
We use idioms to make things more relatable.
But when we turn everything into a concept that doesn't make sense.
We turn the world into a tower of babel.
We isolate everyone.
We make the world blind.
We take an eye for an eye,
Until the world jumps blindly into the ravine of progress.
Scientific suicide.
We hold hands, looking side by side.
But our silence is a knife.
As we open our wrists on the cutting edge of technology
And the blood greases the raw silicone wheels in the valley,
More progress,
More waste,
One happy accident turns into one million depressing funerals quickly if you know what's happening.
Opening your eyes is the hardest part.
Living with what you see is the hard part.
We'd go camping away from city lights,
two best friends, on the cutting edge of wow.
And gaze at the stars on warm summer nights,
connecting with the universe, somehow.
The world was our oyster, we'd shuck for pearls,
leaving our fortunes in the hands of fate.
But when we started hanging around girls,
our friendship slowly began to abate.
We drifted apart and said our goodbyes,
but that was then: this is now, and we've changed.
We're no longer those hormone-driven guys:
I'm sorry that our friendship got short-changed.
I'd like to start over again, my friend:
let's not let our forever friendship end.
In the seventies we thought we were modern
Utmost chic, sassy, on the cutting edge.
With our bell bottom slacks
And our bell sleeved shirts and dresses
Perhaps we were.
Everyone had the same pattern.
It was fun to see which fabrics others would select.
Paisleys and florals were vividly popular!
The polka dotted fabrics stayed back in the fifties.
But stripes were definitely a choice.
once soothing to two
wherever time was
(throughout our relationship at times there was harmony)
lovers
in the moment
(that moment in time when we engaged in sex)
in music of the man who nature dances to
(god was with us)
wrestle in the wind
feel their existence
(and in our love of nature we felt our existence and we were with god)
on nothing they roll
(our love levitated us)
unaware of cold
(we felt nothing but one another)
swim the desert sand
(lost in our unconscious)
and she
wearing his smoking jacket
(and when it was done we were still one)
then it starts again
(our sexual experience continues)
the touch of chains
as they mesh explosive
on the edge of a steel rip
(bondage and trust on the cutting edge of our experimentation)
an hour of talking
(we talk)
then their bare flesh together
in their source
timed
(once again we bond in the making of love)
the crackling sound
of their intercourse
(our sounds like fireworks)
as in a filmstrip
(and we go beyond reality)
and once again
a thousand explosions
(as our orgasms are multiple and explosive)
22~12~2014
With Love
Maurice Yvonne
Free Spirits,
Marching to the beat
of their own drums,
crossing the color lines,
creating hysteria in their
priviledged homes,
Crazy White Girls,
view the world as
their oyster,
Exploring worlds
unknown,
Unhappy with their
pale existence,
they seek comfort
in the sun,
becoming darker
than raisins to
get their groove on,
Artful at being perfect
and on the cutting edge,
The crazier their lives,
the more they seek to
take control,
The naysayers criticize
their verve for life,
and their courage to
be bold.
I swirl and twirl on the reason and rhyme
Of a season so perfect, vulnerable and fine.
Leaping and jumping on the checkerboard of time,
Recalling the hourglass sands falling in line.
For isn't spring but an exuberant child
Speeding through the red lights of life?
Sweet the wine of loving free and wild,
I pirouette on the cutting edge of a knife.
The words of the wise thrown to the breeze,
Lost in the swirl of spring's celebration.
Echoing softly in the tender green trees,
Whispering caution, filled with trepidation.
Frost paid a visit in the darkness of night,
Freezing the dewdrops on the gentle green grass.
Spreading his blanket, all cold and white
Not one single flower or bud did he pass.
Shriveled petals falling like rain,
The love that forever I hold dear.
I drift and glide on winds of pain,
For spring came too early that year.
I swirl and twirl on the reason and rhyme
Of a love so perfect, vulnerable and fine.
Leaping and jumping on the checkerboard of time,
Remembering the love that once was mine.
The pointed tip of a knife in a balancing act?
Sharpened on the cutting edge waits on his finger,
Playing with time as the butcher looks on undecided,
When his next prey will come to challenge this fine blade.
Ages have gone by since it tasted blood in this house,
Possessed by ghost man and his ever present knife.
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