Moss

I need to run faster and farther.

Amber outlet

Housing the cool swill

Of cultures I have grown to love.

Carved in two,

That pristine page

Lifted me at its opening

These random tokens

Taken to heart. 

The tiny bits

The teensy pieces

The myriad mores

Of this land of ‘One’

Calves, cringe

Heel- burned

Knees, spent well

Leverage made of rocks

Propulsion granted

Racing rattlesnakes home

To beat the sun

And back to my bed.

Droplets of disdain

Sweat the outline

I was there

To rid my countenance

Of unwanted

Moss.

'Books that need Burning'

Swirl, pinch, rocked in the dark.

Taken to brinks, edging and quilted floors.

Coaxing foreplay, floor-play, to play out

The dedication of the adventurous mind.

Hypersnap, the keys snatch regions

Enrollment on board,

Swigs of saliva,

Sent into that twin

To mirror the need of the night.

The new orders are in

The screenwriter pre-midnight

Wrings free of tightened ropes.

Delicate musings prime themselves

Aggregate longing bombards the shelves

Tearing down books that need burning

Did Socrates spend time fucking at all?

The Allegory of his Cave was misrepresented…

Ha. The muse tears away,

Laughter resumes, guttural.

Punctual, in time to interrupt

Some significant point that needs making.

This volume is thick, thick with feeling

Blowing out sideways as the words thicken

Grinding to make bones of bread.

Racing pulse, bang the gong of these times.

Licentious in their lusting.

Foolish, to think it possible

To outwit the waist of energetic longing.

These nights are lucid, grown longer.

Grown teeth to tear into arousal.

Watery eyes own these visions

They seek to find a counterpart

To weaken the counter-top

Bent on the destruction of unspent torque

Hiding behind knees, neck, and notions.

A nod to the delirium of Tuesday

To nick and needle the nose tipped down

Suggestive 5pm phone calls

Eliciting low vibrations that head immediately South;

Attacking me between the legs.

This night is long,

This night is stout-

This night has just begun.

Gibbous...

Rest eludes

Climbing into these choices.

Brink of disaster

Exaggeration, replete.

Swiping the time

Into my casket,

These are the decisions

That wax

That wane.

That torture the gibbous

In all her beauty.

That nite-lite for all

To woo us to slumber

Entranced to the Gods of night

To pillow communion.

Emptied beds coo

For Lovers to come

Together

To sweat, sweetly

Into the aura of two

Two to one

Wrapped-

Tightly, exclusively

In nighttime grandeur.

...fumble...dig in

Poured, to give meaning

Branches, purifying this space

Opened lungs bask

Flexing for the crawl space to widen

To retract toxins from dust-laden air

Clung to leaves, coated in movement

Intrepid, the mystery continues

The conveyor belt of manipulations

Stretches long into the night

Words, fumble and dig inwards

Punching the gut instinct to distract

To twist the girth of truth unfolding

Into something more stoic,

More stout-

More stifling.

But I want the peace of answers

Of truths thrown into space

Where the greenery of my silent neighbors

Have filtered the spoils and taken them out!

That must be the order of these days-

To filter if filter must impose itself,

But to filter-free the damning deposits

That waste time on static distortions

And cloud the brazen lyre from authenticity.

Squelch. Squirmed. Squeamish.

Pushing through puckered seams

To point out the boldness

Bursting, with signature style.

Indelibly you, says one half to the other

Own these hours, smeared with your sound,

Your stripes, your machinations.

Algorithm

Buried,

But where?

Perhaps buried is insufficient.

Twinkling rhythms perk my intentions

Ego enters, in controlled strokes

This tango shimmies into awareness

The unspoken confidence no longer lingering

But dipping, swinging, hunting- full bore.

Onto swirling motions and calculated abandon.

Ha! The mixture of control and impulse is iconic

To grant a waltz of the like is to trust in the instinct

That magic be made,

In light of congruence

In light of love.

The trust, unspoken

Breeding everywhere that conscience swarms

My balance is innate, it is unfailing

It is assured.

This marriage of color

Indubitably owns my freedoms

Sweltering days bleed into taxed nights

Heeding the merit of innuendos explored.

All these unexplained sonatas

Heard faintly,

Detected subtleties, given due.

These wordless metaphors tumble out

Out of heart, Out of mind, Out of psyche.

The long murmuring soloist

Has yet to tire, bowing yes, but never breaking.

Choreographing instead, a lifetime of symmetry

Of geometric, mellifluous beauty.

Of curvaceous, uncharted mornings

And deep thumping into night.

Pouncing ideas, darting back and forth

True to the reasoning of a free spirit

There may be control, contingent upon the role given

But there too is allegiance to the pioneer inside.

Long live the individualism

Innate to my existence.

Vast

Constructive,

Flesh-tone, highlighted

Bolted against the door  

Leading elsewhere; leading out

Away from the affections

Of sable and synthetics.

Eye to eye are we,

That plucked out version of self

I have so carefully extracted and hung

Hung to face my choices; clear, strong, poignant.

Touched.

“Give time to me…”

As my one true task is to exist

For you.

For you, the architect of all my curves.

The creator of my lines, both intersecting

And obtuse.

Love.

The love here is vast

Vast, pure.

True.

#Tuesday