Roughage

We are contained 

In the incense of our skin. 

Living to breathe freely

Through all things - felt,  unspoken. 

I wade into the roughage 

Seeking grammatical justice

Finding little appeasement 

In colloquial etiquette.

I want the murder of silence

To give birth to centrifugal forces

That will light the way for the animal in us 

To engage in wilder ecstasies. 

To ignite the flammable pools we've filled

With our unending leakage of dismay

Milked from duties met, 

As time yielded proven metaphors. 

Respect can lead to resurrection 

As cosmic interplay unwraps Eden

The willingness to advance further

Breeds. 

Into the eroticism of intellect

I swallow the ocean of you

To drink my fill of all things masculine, 

And moving. 

A mating pair knows, that even in their silence - verbose desire thrives

Adding weight to the heady ingestion

Of their moist existentialism.

Letter to The East Coast

"I see today differently." - you say to me

"Hold my hand.
Let us walk and pass through more words." - my response

The banging quiet holds cuffs of metal bolted to the nerve of gritted teeth.
Sinewy barbed wire,
tacks down the a.m. ambition
once shitty influencers wake from dead napping

It's coffee without creamer these days
To unload more saturated fat
Making my innards bulletproof.

And they said 'defense' was an honorable role.
Positioning against all would-be aggressors
From possible point-taking
However, how mutable is the actual definition
To "defending" oneself, against - Self...?

Sssshhh.... I'm splitting words now,
Semantics never knew how far I'd wish to go.

What if the "Aggressor" seeks kindness,
Seeks love, and seeks softness.....
To satisfy hearts and all things 'cozy'
That need and want you and I for soft landing?

WTFuck then?

Are we blocking the 'point' of love?
... the point of life?
... the very point of existence?

I sit here for so many months, allowing
Time to turn into boulders and goad me.
Goad me into thinking that if I
Sit and do nothing - those monoliths
Of unspent potential will roll back
Down the fucking mountain I hauled
Them up - and crush me.

But- (never-ever start a sentence with the word 'but')
But!! The DEFENDER in me. Ahh yes,
The Wily defender - that bitch argues
points even better. She testifies
often that when that time arrives,
as my nerve and need settle into
their twilight - and the honey-pit betwixt
legs confines itself to the ether,
I will not only be alleviated, but
Proud to have outrun my tender soliloquies,
With gold-cup (first place variety) in hand.

Really? Really though.
Is this the context of, the woman in me?
Is this the race I run?
How the fuck can this- be O.K.?

And I am not saying I will progressively
Pursue any love-making mess
That gets to me, in desperation.

I am simply saying I should not employ
The use of an executioner, damn near
daily - to snuff my dreams of
Love and care.

There are many ways that love will
change a tempo, a vibration, and
even, our homegrown - inner chemistry

Would not the fine wind be a solid
mate for a day? ...to lavish away
that musky stubbornness we crank
hard into our elbows?
Or what of the wish that a
Dandelion wisp may bring?
To pluck and say 'yes' to the
Whimsy of its promise?

You and I need something more.
Fuck what we're owed, fuck all we've known. Fuck the garden
Of darkness we've tended to.

Say 'Yes' to the pleasantries that
Sluff away grime.

Say yes to the sunshine and becoming
More open to nature's flattery.
Say yes to a higher vibration;
Say yes to the light.
It won't be easy if we tell ourselves that.
So let us tell ourselves - otherwise.
Let ourselves become - lifted.

Love,

- Me

Mute

September came and left
And I, all the drier.
Have become a canker
With a voice that sings long,
Powerfully, and true.
Raiding my warmth for nothing.

Sinister.
Mute.
Decomposing.

The seriousness of self
Remediating.

Into Eternity.

Habitual life of mine
How is it we arrived here
To this place of festering distraction
Organic matter everywhere
Living, breathing, existing
Despite the foam I'm whipping.

A muscle pulled
The drawn bow of my back
Repenting. Paid for with interest
To the running up with weight,
Even when I knew better.
The blistering heat, it pushed me.

I slink into this mess
As practiced, forging wider borders
To extend my mournful obsessing.
Wtf is this poison I lather on profusely
Dicking around in aged cynicism
Waiting for permission to dry up

Waste is wasting more resources
Idly I carry on with it, welcoming decay.
Admitting regularly in silence but boldly nonetheless
That my time spent on love of amorous design
Be shot dead by this greasy shit elbow of mine.
Winter, into eternity, moving in.

Portland.

Blown
Into me
Comfort me.
I want to be woven in
To every tendril
Of vein
Bone
And elbow.

That maleness
You bring...
Fucked
In the temptation
Of what is yours
Not to give.

So we do this
Again
Distanced.
You North, and
I
South.
Far enough to be
Plastic

As long arms
Pull me
Into
That heated,
Blood-filled
Heart.
Rumbled in baritone
Pump.

This fucking head
Continues
To fall nowhere
Against itself,
Against walls,
Against concrete pillows.
Slaughtering
Rest.

You, one among few
Do this
This prying open of
Wounds
This chewing of
Potential.
Reinvigorating
The raw.

And my hound guarded gates
Give way in thought,
In theory,
In distaste.
The brooding
Pessimist-
Awakened.

Calm

Quinacridone magenta curly cues
Weaving near the surface
Deep purple squiggles
Own the mass.
Sun soaked segments
Sanctify time wisely spent
And even the sand cannot protrude
On warmly fulfilling afternoons
Of sea salted bliss.

Amoral Designs

Whispered hints
Deflated egos
Clues passed on through an
Undisguised linguist
With his
Unpopular truths.

Time run amok
On minds that mine deeply
Returning now
To my withered Northern Muse.
Deranged estrangement
Holding continuity.

I heard your voice once
The joy of which soothed me
Unparalleled thanks
Rushed utterances flown earnestly
Into my ears, my hands, my heart.
The feeling- here.. the words- lost.

You were planting seeds
On your worst of days
In preparation for what may come
I hear you now. Relevance and repugnance
For how hollow past waves can undulate.
These are recognizable horizons.

In through the bones
Your dialogue drilled
To marry with my marrow
Lest I forget.
Take into account the tales of woe
As life chews eagerly on.

Here I am amidst the entrails of potential
Firmly held to aggressive restraint
Even as the brittle rears its unfamiliar head
I recognize its presence
Feeling tempted to scream.
So I scream... through lead, through ink.

Cold feet and warm hands
The handling and walking of life
Stoicism defined within my contextual mind
But beneath fingertips, are sweetened bits
That push and give way to amorous needs
Laid out between soft white pages...

As amoral designs unwind.

A Wild Place

Skin dissipates
the meat of me
coming to mean,
less.

I melt now
into sound
melodies
knock loose tears
wedged between heart
and a wild place.

Violin
claw out the mewling nerve
stuck in throats
that seek higher learning.
deep-tissue gorge
diamond lined
blackened dust
oozing.

Remittance to none
save the safety
of
the inane.

Tuesday Evening

Happiness,  a brand
Welcomed,  if able.
As bass thumps through my cage
I stand in isolation
Surrounded by anti-happy
The unknown
Festering.

3 minutes until 8
The evening bellows in Irish tones
My own mandible, mute.

What comes with light from yonder morning...
Apples trapped in throats
Vibrating nearby
I'm never this close to men.
Close enough
To smell their sounds
And taste their movement.

Betwixt memories
And loving something owned
I am adrift.

Gently...

Process
Carrying through the process
Of pushing.
Pushing past density-
Impossible

Pounding impossible to dust
With fists of mush
Indecent analogies
Plucked from omniscience
No shortage of perfected sickness

Burdens will be beaten,
Interiors will suffer
Giving all to degenerate diseased falsehoods
The one last defense, against
Insanity.

Scrambled Soul
So loved and cherished,
Do your best to defer to sweetness
In every ounce of your tired flesh
Ease into the care you're lavished

As partners rot
The sane compose their weary reserves
Gently moving forward...
Acceptance of living hells
Thriving.

'... rolled...'

Lumber dragged
To burn in a pyre
Fit to be seen,
From Outer Space.
Ghosts from nowhere
Crisscrossing
Fucking with limbo.
The days rolled
Into- Life

Time for a poultice
Of action born of need
To rouse and incentivise
The minutes as they crawl.

Essentials... negotiate
Trust in these hours
Spent meeting past gains?
Preparing for- late glimmer?

Rubbish.
Brand muscles with more
More relevance
More meaning
More diplomacy toward self

The outward effort has been necessary
But a calling gains momentum.
The smell of an Order
Designed to articulate
Best lives lived
Through well-articulated whim
And intelligent fancy.

Vibrating Tomes

Inferences dragging me South
Drugged by indigenous winds
Stipend of words make due.

Meet me in the middle of nowhere
Where language means Nothing
There, where the dust lands on ragged sills
With a boom,
And the Nothing breathes regardless
Of any witness.

To whom do we pray for answers
To questions that beg release?

And how many more times
Will I promise that road that I'm coming...
To wind around its path
More naked with each step taken,
Toward a goal that leaps onward
To take intent past the reach
Of unattainability?

It's there that the Virtuoso scratches his name.

The desolate stretch of unseen mass
Widening my appetite again
Dunking the precept of all I ascertain.

Hôtel Morning

Eroded
Bone and tendon
Affection bound
None taken.
Grievous reality
Snowed in skins
Paused
Silent,
Lamenting.

These Next 9

Liberated by mood
Accentuated with sound
The blur of morning- awakens.

Hot components burrow deep
Red skins perform satiation
Energy passing- betwixt.

Without words the day rises
Into steamy breath, my scarf and I perform
We move- succinctly.

Friday and fuel transact themselves
Buttons pushed made motives worthy
Westbound- these next 9.

Into this aging day I drive towards
To linger in slower movement as night falls
Welcoming all the sounds I so adore.

Patterns disrupted to maintain patterns;
Accustomed, regaled, revered, and revived
Casual intensity orchestrates heavens-

That bid welcome of all known and unknown potentials.

Scripted...

Code in mahogany
Scripted ..in whim
Racey pulse turns quiet- sour

A birthday, a mood,
A reminiscence:
50 is coming to engulf us all.

What whimsy these decades predict
Textbook moods now follow derision,
Of all our conquests- unmet.

A desk- a hallway- windowed background
Glued particles dressed as faux champions
Frugality has driven decor.

Ode to those whose nod were in favor
Of pursuits that turned lips upwards
Nearer heaven and sunshine.

Stripped of 'best' when intention is mute
Clacking processional will not be derailed
To punch and punch on in honor of expectation.

Who am I today, 31 days from my 46th?
Moving upwards? Near enough to points of worth?
I had that 'face to face' I craved- now what?

Insignificant REM states deprive light
Of circular transgressions that throb alone
Impotence haunting slumber- pfffft.

Rest to wake to wake to tire- to lay again-
Alone, onto a nest of  pure function
Where once warm hands could lie.

10 Months Apart

Time marking moments
Events streaming, stamping memory
To eventual eradication
Of this- I understand.

Breadcrumbs to entries
Upon which fleeting moods tattoo media
Choice is overwhelming
Wealth of body and mind.

A new bag to travel with, a good man- related.
Tough and sturdy archives now swing
Hipside and fluently, hands frequently touch.
This profound documentary moving forward.

Brother, admiration flows
The greatness of years spill over
These energies we know- etched to bones
Widen the gate of where we go.

The toolkit is the stronghold
Of all newly born and known intention
Eager anxieties pool near knees and elbows
Awaiting the leap of achievement.

A cup with coins, and leaves for storage
Purified dreams float upwards
Distilled in the knowledge that soon
The weary traveler takes flight.

Dominican

Wednesday- a gifted treasure
Time home to plan anything
And nothing, if I so choose.

Mother returned to interactivity
Near 3 years- lost.
Promising and sweet, even in uncertainty
I recall her expressions.

Time and tone are changed
The opener has given brightest entry
To a New Year in unexpected joy!

A ring now found with shocked delight
With day 2 contemplation I am resting easy.
Another Coelho closed, quiet morning done right.

Widening Understanding is Understood.
As the smartest man I know roams in the Dominican,
I smile at continued fortitude,
And revel in our affinity.