12:03 a.m.

caught

like that barbed wire

struggle

against beauty so sublime it’d make wordsworth

cry

for those who will not

listen

to your purple blooded veins that

pump

home the thoughts of death so you

call

your mom just to 

tell

them all that you did wrong, if you’d only

beg

your knees to please not

fail

those that you always knew but did not

love

the past, your thighs, the future

advancing

soon to take you, swiftly blow

kisses

on your insecurities, please

bring

me your dead

skin

the moment of its

juice

the freshness from it

all

here? are we all

met

him late against the back-lit

wall

me into your heart, give me

much

of you so that I can

whisper

to the balloon swelling of my heart and make it

hush

little child, sleep will not

come

in the shadows, nothing will

haunt

me gently, that’s all I

beg

for forgiveness because you want to be a person

again

the itching overtakes my soul and drives

deeper

into the ice cold light.

dusk

shot through with

            sudden being--

light particles dance

            on my tongue--

the twilight descends

            a dizzy steel blue.

when was the last time air

            smelled sweet as this—

evenings coated with

            cocoa & hibiscus—

last remnants of melancholy

            melted into pavement. 

my soul is overrun

            with soft-grown lilacs—

smiles come warm as

            mulberry wine—

both murmurs and silence

            settle contemplatively in.

with our cosmos eyes

relentless in our film noir lives—

a search for meaning as

rich as techni-color.

it is fragile beauty,

this not knowing;

painted egg-shell delicacy:

white blended into gray,

soft shadows of being,

words stumbled over imperfectly.

this yearning I feel sometimes:

you know it too?

violet ambrosia cloys at the back of my throat,

tastes like deep summer dusk.

we do not imagine

(or if so, circumventingly):

instead

we long, bend, ache--

looking ever forward
with our cosmos eyes

blinking bright stars

into both death and being. 

aflame

sometimes words fall

from my mouth like ashes
drifting up a chimney:

white, soft, pure, their heat

breathed out of them. but

other times, they singe like

still-warm coals, lightly sizzle
into soul-flesh; the wound 

takes heart-ache to heal. and

there are rare times when

words lick like flames

at your cheeks; scarlet

envelops you deeply

in burns of life-time ache. 

remember please: it takes all 

three to make a fire, for my

soul scorches brightly into

the universe, a reckoning

inferno in need of understanding.