If you want

I search for the words
of black and gray
but the words don't exist
at least not in that way.
Better they should be
born from my lips
to your ears.
No interference -
nothing in between
those that you hear
and the ones that I mean.
Any disparity
requiring clarity
can be resolved in our eyes.
So bring your face close
to mine, love
and if you want truth
it will tell you all there is to know.
And if you want kisses
all I have are for you
but if you want your freedom
then what am I to do?
It is yours for a song
for then all that I want
will already be gone.

I'm Thinking of You

"what are you thinking?"
you fancied inquire
like a game of truth or dare
and you couldn't believe
when I'd only answer
"nothing, it's all static in there."
But I didn't guess that
the question was loaded;
the tipping point past
where all trust is eroded.

Well, since you've been gone
the answer has become
emphatic and explicitly true
What am I thinking of now?
I'm thinking of you.

What am I thinking of now?
Now, now, now  and forever
Can't conceive I'd endeavor
to dam up the tunnel
my mind funnels through.
It's incontrovertibly true
I'm thinking of you.

All of my efforts
have been self defeating
and all of my words, regrettable
all the errors
that don't bear repeating
how I repeat them is simply incredible.
Even when I choose
to ignore them
your absence alone
has the power to restore them
though there's no interest left
for my singular debt to accrue.

I could try, I suppose,
to drown my thoughts
like so many others that do.
But that isn't in my make up
There's no casual craft
I can take up for awhile
to while the too much time away.
Can't just file them, sublimely, away-
the questions and the memories
that keep cascading through.
What am I thinking of now?
I'm thinking of you.
God help me,
I'm thinking of you.

secrets.

I wish I could let you in
on the answers. But you know
I don't have them
and I don't even know
if they exist.
I wish I could gift you
with reassurance that
everything will be alright.
But then, maybe it won't?

Even if I knew the words,
they are only a scripted cue
from the magician for whatever
his confederates have been taught to do
in order to hide the trick from view.
It's taken years of practice and deception
to make it feel so terribly real.

I wish I could divulge
the secrets you are seeking.
(Is it really any secret?)
I don't know.
Always seems as though
the secret of happiness
is in being happy
and the secret of life
is that it must be lived.
Not even love can
make happiness.
Not even love
can make things right.
Not even love can cajole
the rain to fall or end.
If it could,
I would always have flowers
for your table and the
honey for your tea.

all's fair

She's not invested in splitting hairs.
she only disagrees because she cares.
a modifier dangling from her dramatic lips
strictly speaking she never trips
or, when waxing on grammatic, slips.

Her voice employs my breath,
implores my attention,
impairs my judgement,
invades my conscience
with armies of memories,
fits of despair,
declarations of war
and delusions of surrender.

I need no defense.
I am lost and giddy in defeat.
My residence razed
my menu fouled and forgotten.
Pride has no function in the aftermath of a slaughter.
I will not accept mercy.

untitled No.2

On the playground 
near the picnic tables 
we'll be the best of friends 
until the game is up,
the sun retreats  
and shadows break hard 
over boundaries
once so easy to discern.
Still, the rules are there
to be ignored,
like homework on the slate board.

Players in a seasonal pageant, .
we are. The children
of our own misgivings.
Soon enough the voices call
announcing curfew for us all
and they are not so easily deflected.

So, will I turn the table over,
scattering plastic slugs
and penalty cards before
I concede to defeat?
There is no tally of the score.
I won't regret another loss.
The end is simply preordained
and it's always fun and friendly
until everyone gets hurt.

blood and ice cream

Pretty is not the word to describe her
Hinting only at a larger truth.
Beauty is an epic masterwork
in chalk on rainy pavement.
A cruel condition of
her probation - like an ankle monitor,
reporting her whereabouts to philosophers,
court physicians and men of God

Someday is a promise
Empty and frail as fragrance
imprinted on a lonely pillowcase
or lip gloss on a plastic cup.
Tomorrow is a memory,
a tantrum of blind possessive desire.
Think on that
when she forgets you,
waiting in the sun
on the heat of the sidewalk,
the ice cream dripping on your shoes
and realize you would lie to that cop's face,
grab his angry gun
and die in the struggle
if called upon, to aid in her escape.
If blood and ice cream
are all you have to offer
and even they are not enough.


[Halt! Who goes there? Please feel feel to comment constructively.]

untitled No.1

I want to listen to the sound
of your fingers pressing
against the strings, false notes intact;
live, without amplification.
That is your voice, the story
that is you in all your glorious
and sacred imperfection. 
Read to me aloud from
the book of your life
a chapter at a time.
And when you are done,
start over from the beginning.
A never ending melody.
You don't need to be draped
in doll clothes or walk on stilts
to merit attention.

Your simple essence curls up
and purrs against my spine-
Pale bare legs and cotton khaki.
Sparkling water and crooked smile - 
thrilling me more than some sideshow
or spectacle; more soothing than
any ceremonial rite.