Following Logic

Following logic
like a terrible art
the lines never breathed
life from hue
The atmosphere, less
colorful concepts and persistent
passion became more
waxy molds
and wicks
unlit.
From its very bend
and knowing frame
even the desk
knew the lofty theme
of its heavy stacks.
A tendril of smoke loops
luxuriously, the only clue
to a present mind
like that hotel
at the city limits;
guestless
but still open.

She Cannot Be Hurt

She cannot be hurt
if she remains unknown
so she walks these streets
in stolen clothes.
They clung to you
as they molded your form
outlining a you
hollow and warm.
She knows the danger
of being well known
but worse, she could be
to herself soon shown.
No reflective glass or
rippled pool
will hide the fear
of one lost fool.
And so these streets
she walks with dread
spooled in borrowed
bleeding thread.

From the Space

From the space
around my heart
to the space
around your own
I send this
intention
and make it
gently known:

From the depths
of that blaring blur
you remember who
you always were;

You transition from a
building gray
to a mead of white
and warming rays;

You walk through the
mouth of Surrender’s gate
and step ahead
in lighter weight;

You cross sleeping grass
that yawns its love
and fields that feather
clouds above;

Your silent steps
arch their newest sphere
and find their pathway
free from fear.

Drying

There is a simple dew
drop truth that rests
on the swollen spine
of a leaf, heart shaped
on a vine
now withered.

Silently it sparkles
this message that neither
of us listened for
at the time:

You were not to be
split open
and I was not to be
tamed

Rather, needed nightly
was a white
ceiling
under which we could
each breathe
and be heard.

That vine waits
to be watered
by more than just
borrowed dew
and desperate tears,
now drying.

Dance

A hollow drumbeat
sways from unhidden
hips, lashes lower and
arms as tentacles
reach and curl for
everything
touching nothing
but themselves

Carnal claps come in
waves, salted just
enough to thirst
for more
and all members
stand alert in
praise
for the power
of this pulse

The wish to die
in this beat exhales
through circled lips;
to stay
this way
body damp
flushed and
twirling
under sealed eyes
and breath,
burning

Do you do this?

Rediscover communication
That poetry…
Why is it that every time
you give me
exactly what I need?
I read something
I hear something
I breathe and
remember something
and your face
appears,
smiling
When our voices and words
touch and swap
and settle
I slow down
and catch up
Sense of compassion
Is it because you are that great friend
who would understand? Or is it
something more? Can you love
your friends
this much?
Between supposed lovers.
Do you do this? Do you sit
and wait
for a song to give you an answer?
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit

These Things

I think about
these things:
How it feels
physically
What it makes
you want to
do
What it makes
you want to
promise
What it makes you
want to
savor
How it drives
you to
abandon
How you know
already
how much it can
hurt
How you still
wonder
if it’s real
and how your abandon
never keeps you from
trying
to find out
Those three
words have their most
power
the first time
they are spoken. From then,
each utterance
weakens.