Tag Archives: passion

From the left seat I can see that you were right

11 Nov

I reside in heavens

when we fly it’s very clear

the bigger organism we

are apart of/from up

here/now vision clouded

with/by ether, our lives below

the bible thumping belt, so rare

did you think I wasn’t looking when you quietly ordered

yourself back into submission from the menu

or was that for those to whom you say life is good like comfort food for breakfast

on saturday just before noon in our pajamas with the radio playing/the smell of grease

and gasoline in your hair, citrus on the wind

real maple syrup and bacon/your favorite

race on television. We did things

on that leather couch that would embarrass the children if they existed

we spooned entire days into a bowling ball bag

you won/lost, as if we had nothing

more important to do than touch each other until we did

or maybe we only manufactured that/you

came down from your mountain-top to pull me up

and I was so grateful I gave you things

to desire instead

of me/but when I called down to you from mine

you couldn’t hear me any more

than when I used to tell you

I had a dream

in the night/you reached

out for me from your

fear of light/sleepers

women pilots

weak people


and we would fly

blindly, madly

in love with passenger seats, advanced

stall warning recovery

whether predictions

down-shifting, flights planned

restricted/visual ceiling fan rules

taking precedence under the covers

your feet my pedals

clutching, crabbing

our forte

negative g-forced

free fall

Watermelon Seeds and Whales

17 Oct

At our current astral position

in orbit

around uncomfortable subjects

not to mention disobedient

don’t stomp a get worse on the snout

we centered ourselves, grounded the

teenagers, micro waved hello our pot

pies and sat down for being swallowed

blubber bellied blue light globules

in the splash zone between the living

room walls

’round n’ round we go

where the dying starts

nobody knows

it all looks the same from up here

some of us want out

some get spit out

all the rest’ll

be digested

monetarily momentarily

everything comes out again eventually

everyone knows it’s not about the destination

question is

will you take the large intestinal journey

or the intentional one




we don’t need no stinking doors





there’s no such thing as it’s too late

Mi pequeño ángel

Where have all the angels gone?

A Certain Feeling

16 Oct

There’s a certain feeling  I get, knowing you were in my bed with me last night. It doesn’t even matter that you may never be again. Because tonight I can smell you on my pillows and this morning I laughed as I realized the extraneous patience I had for untangling the sideways blanket and sheets while making the bed which you do so much more efficiently than me.

Too bad we slept in this morning. I’m happy you traded breakfast for that new position though. Reminds me of a pair of scissors when I look back at your hands on my hips. Your body splitting me in two at the waist. The dreamy gaze your eyes blink back when you hit the snooze button one more time and the spot that makes us both gasp and smile warm, cottony smiles at each other as we pull back the sheets again.

In fact, I’m glad you’re not here. It gives me time to remember the way you laced your fingers in mine as we sweat ourselves to sleep. How you asked me to come for you again and again because you like it. How hard you worked not to. How you leaned in for one last kiss before unconsciousness took over. How you pulled me close entwining your legs with my legs, your feet with my feet.

I like it like that. One for you and four for me. Although, if you were here I would have proof it was not a dream. And if it was, I am so glad I am right here in the perfect place to recreate it. Here again in my bed, the sheets now neatly tucked under the pillow on one side. My hands are your hands between my legs. I’m wet just thinking about you but you know that from experience.

The fruit was good. Thank you. Last night your flesh was a ripe, purple plum between my teeth and this morning I ate you again for breakfast.


10 Oct

How much can I miss you
Cuánto te extraño

no matter how the day goes
aunque no el dia se pase

I long for you each evening
te deseo cada noches

and every morning when I awake
y despierto todas las mañanas

my heart is full of you once more
reponer mi corazón con su fe

vista al lago

How deep is the night

Chapter 3 – The Silver Flute, Pt. 2

28 Sep

The first time she played the silver flute she felt a surge of energy and pure emotion, the likes of which she had never experienced before. It was the first time she felt a way “out” or a way in depending on how you look at it without the aid of hallucinogens. It was so clean. She couldn’t get enough. She played for hours never looking up to acknowledge the people around her much less eat or drink. It was as if the flute played itself and she was naught but the air it took to breathe. The keys were soft and soundless under her fingers; effortlessly gauging the rhythm of her song. She played a furious Hungarian sweep without fail and felt herself a virtuoso. Then a melancholy “Greensleeves” found her lips and she fell deep into the spell of the first octave of that seductive minor scale.

Far away from her so-called friends, her family, and alone with this music an invisible man became her mentor. Some girls grew up believing in a Prince Charming. Her fantasy was created by books. In particular, books given to her by an influential lover whom she imagined was grooming her for their future together. Part suffering writer, part vampire, part seductive intellectual pedophile and part lesbian poet – he introduced her to the night, to the moon and to the power of melody. He could have been her phantom had she known such a thing as that existed.

“Ah, Greensleeves now farewell adieu

To g-d I pray to prosper thee

For I am still your lover true

Come once again and love me.”

It is during the week of the big moon now seven years and a nine-month trip to a foreign country later that she makes her trek to the tombs. It’s really just a duplex racquetball court in the local park that produces ethereal acoustic effects. She chooses this time with the knowledge that the light of her moon will be brightest now. Just off center in the sky. Between the hours of 12 a.m. and 3 a.m. that giant orb is her lantern and her companion. She likes to say that porthole is open while human shadows are cast directly and nevermore. It is quite a dangerous thing to traipse about in the light of street lamp, yet in the beams of moonlight one is free to roam peacefully without fear of being anything but blue.

She is a petite thing. Her once mousy brown auburn hair hangs to her waist, tied back with a fresh twig she has just plucked from an olive tree. She feels this is appropriate hair accessory for the moment. She believe her thick, untamed eyebrows to be her best feature as they frame her fiery green eyes and give a fiendishly demonic finish to her round face. People say she looks beautiful when she smiles. Probably because it’s such a rare occurrence. At any rate, she flashes her piercing fangs with pride. The dentist calls them a cosmetic defect but she’s under the impression that being defective is better than being normal at this point in her almost adulthood. Being a child of the night keeps her skin pale and ever so soft. She secretly wishes to be bronzed when she spots a fine desert specimen of womanliness but the smell of burning leather always sends her running for the safety of the shadows. The sun kills!

In the privacy of her own private tomb, not more than 500 yards from the nearest intersection, she prepares “The Music of the Night”. She’s older now and has been officially inducted into the world of Broadway musical numbers, opera and ballet. She begins with this song ritually in search of the phantom she’s absolutely certain exists now though she knew nothing of the sort only a few short years ago. She ends with her own version of tele-communication – a high-pitched trilling which usually sent the neighborhood hounds into a frenzy but did little for humans unlike herself.

She believes sometimes in the great powers of the luminescence surrounding her. Bestowing upon herself the ability to make contact or to send a secret message to a faraway lover. She finds her inner light to be brightest of all. Mostly, she’s just blowing the day away, for the night is her sanctuary. The place where she can shine without fear of blinding. To a passer-by some of her found sounds might even be a bit annoying.

She never actually intends to meet anyone here. But the effects of the moon and her enchanting music have induced more than a few memorable encounters. Tonight, she plays a special tune in honor of the full moon. When the sky turns midnight blue and the sidewalk glows and it’s colder than it’s ever been she says, the porthole is open. The porthole in her tomb is the gateway to dimensions lesser in number and higher in tune. To rest and to perform the calling, she sends all visitors to flee. Inviting only one to join her, she does not feel the cold and she is not afraid.

Chapter 3 – Yes

26 Sep

We have kissed

Connected, killed


Dowsed and drown


A scorpion underfoot

Chapter 3 – The Subject of Our Conversation

26 Sep


From planes of reality to

The extent of our imaginations

Defining each other

Sounding off – sharing

We found ourselves

Searching, strolling

Sometimes staggering

On a path of similar direction

For now, he is no stranger

The ink we spill so


Insatiable is my song

However imperfect the pitch

Our words – how ever permanent

Soon fade

Just as distance provokes a shout

And mountains mimic us in echo

I heard you as you spoke

Of tomorrow’s memories

Chapter 3 – In Sanctuary

21 Sep

Prophetic, probation(ary)

Backyard pools drown children

Pull virtuosity

Down below

Comfort treads water

In fathomful minds

Suffocating under pillows

Passion gasps! Then sighs

A last procession follows

Cotton fields smother

Aphids in action

She smiles as you slide

Safe? Yielding?

Among sheets of white gold

Spun as snowflakes on windy wings

Lost in found(ness)

Roofings fulfill houses (un)abound in satisfaction



Deception grins at your death

Sold are your silver desires

Your life is not yours

In sanity or

In sanctuary

You simply survive

Chapter 2 – To My Sisters

31 Aug

Sweet young birds you are

Or butterflies

Tasting the nectar of life

Welcoming the sun

Or frolicking in the rain

You grow

Like the strongest vine climbs to the

Top of the tallest building

It will take some time

And patience

But those who have raised you

Will soon come to see you reach your summit

No mountain too steep

No current rough enough

To bring you under

Walk, my sisters, talk together

Open your hearts and minds to exploration

For as sad as it may seem

Nothing lasts forever

Nothing – but our love and adoration

Of each other

Chapter 2 – I tried

10 Aug

I tried to write a poem about the rain

But it didn’t end without your name

I tried to write a poem about the sky

But it didn’t end without your eyes

I wrote of the stars above

It wasn’t whole without your love

I wrote of this land

And this country

But I finished with your hands

And my body

I versed about a chair

It turned into your stare

The market place

Became your face

The dragon’s lair

Turned into your hair

The railway station

Now desperation

I wrote of the dew on the grass and the sea

And it became you making love to me

The ships on the dock became your lips

And your –

Smile is where I can be happy

Even without you near

Soon, even this small respite becomes

Lover, how I wish you were here

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