Time twists in on itself,
forming a tesseract,
a Moebius strip of waiting to and making love with you.
Fingers claw at clothing,
praying for purchase of skin on skin,
subtle strokes of a collarbone,
of a shoulderblade,
of lips kissing infinitely,
our passion a desperate prayer on our tangled tongues,
calling God and each other and finding divinity in the sparks of
love that live in our eyes when we look at each other.
Your head against my shoulder,
as the film plays and you slip briefly, blissfully, into the Land of Nod:
I am sitting here/I am waiting for you there/
I am stroking your hair and your face gently/We are flying over all obstacles and avarices/
I am not imagining perfection to your breasts but drinking in how lovely you look when you’re sleeping/we are dream-logic lovers, married, parents, old and gray sweethearts still holding hands in a park/
I am basking in the glory of your love for me/I am basking in the glory of your love for me.
Posted in Love, Poetry, Slam
Tagged dating, dreams, kissing, Love, love-making, Moebius strip, physics, poetry, time
The idea frightened, but with the resolve came the enlightened sine that sparked the thoughts that crossed the line between the mundane and the divine,
with a brightness in kind to render one blind.
Finding colors in the wash of white,
derived from the fractioned proportions that kept coming out of light,
a sight more sincere than the sample of sirens that sent celibate men into the depth a’wend of the tasks they had yet to portend,
pretending peace on stony shores and stares that circumvented the “why” by asking “what” and “wherefore?”
Posted in Love, NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Slam, Theology
Tagged afterlife, color, color diffusion, death, earth, fatal, life, light, monks, mythology, passion, peace, physics, piety, prism, reality, road, sirens, solemn, spirit, spirituality, white
Blood on my hands, though it wasn’t the plan,
questioning which of us is really the also-ran;
her grace untam’d by the days that my conscience
takes dominance and she’s braised with my obstinateness face-to-face.
Traces of her strength still hang upon my brow,
her scent that fills me with doubt;
which way to face the prow of my ship,
have I slipped? Happiness sealed with the stamp on the writ?
Legitimate to labor on the fear of its pretenses,
given the vision of hindsight in the lenses;
flexes physics with a feigning of proportion,
quickly set to dormant, and feared abhorrent.
Posted in Love, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged aches, blame, blood, burning, conscience, habits, happiness, healing, heart, heartache, loam, physics, plan, pyre, resilience, scent, shit, strength, time, tools, wounds
Who am I to say
that these changes should be made today?
I am just carbon configured in this frame,
just massive fascination coiled inside a, relatively, tiny brain.
Craving fame, chasing beer
year after year, to quell the fear
of aging, maintaining the same status quo,
don’t you know? Some labels just expose the low.
Conquering crow, carnivorous of carrion,
A harried son, a well-polished passion,
Platinum plated pattern on the patent nomer:
When the phrases he embellishes play as more than just a list:
Posted in Poetry, Slam
Tagged aging, biology, changes, chemistry, Cool Whip, creativity, death, elders sensual, fame, gastronomy, methodical, physics, psychology, respect, Special Relativity, stately manors, status quo, substance abuse, talent