One Boy and 3 Girls.

I dream of maturing smiles
Aging in their laughter
Loving in our home..

Swift-witted humor
Dodging in and out of rooms
Into the belly of laughter-
Robust, genuine, well-earned.

Hope, commitment, affection
Care, love, and deepest trust
These human beings that love me
Love me better than I ever knew to teach them.

Blissful window of life-
Gifting me daily of the company of
One Boy and 3 Girls-
Breathing into my cherished world
A life well-lived in affectionate joy.

Skillsets.

Pretty hands to hold a heart in trust
A long winded battle, taking longer to confer
All the reasons and non-reasons...worth trudging on for.

Pick or rather choose your battles wisely, the saying goes.
Had they not chosen me to begin with-
Who would I be in my today?

Maturity brings lamplight lit longer
More willing to earn the understanding
For why we loom about when we do.

I linger longer than I have ever needed to

The blunt force of this trauma has labored...yet remained.

I am done repainting the bulls-eye, sewn deeply onto my back.
What I have done in order to alleviate the weight
Has been gloriously massive, respectable, commendable, and lifelong.

I trudged on in compassion, hope, optimism (though not without sadness)
And always, always, with the ardent wish
To forgive and adore when need be.

These lessons in life- we can learn and they can and will teach.
But we cannot conform to the fiendish cruelty
No matter the reasons behind why they manifested as they did.

Manifest Destiny applies to us all.
To our hopes, dreams, and well-developed skill-sets.
We are to cease when the dead horse bloats and reincarnates

Fuck that wicked, wild animal- swarming with maggots and pessimism.

There will be no further hauling down of hearts that yet yearn for the good..
Simply the case must be that love-songs should roam into uncharted lands
In the event they become abused in their 'now'.

Move on to risk, swap, and barter- your goodness for greatness.

The good fight is always worth a grand go.
Toss that spoiled milk yet rotting out to the gutter
Where its loss is long overdue.

Thursday....

Lunchtime....

Morning...

...safe spot...

That warm coat from sound
Your laughter brings
A wavelength I bump into, and
Slide..............................................
Out of control, slippery
The only safe spot to land on
Your lap.

We Are Words

Words
They surround us
Titles of our existence
Cultural labels
Defined.

Away from the madness
We are naked
Cloaked in sun, moon, sky.
With wind to tickle me
Where your sweat now lingers.

Causal nexus
Begin

Into the World...

Who are  we in the layers of time that we have lived?
Cocooning myself into your laughter
I hear the sound of that tone that calls me
Echoing long and effectively.

What are we like in our aged state?
Apart, together, touched and forgotten
Together, apart, forgotten - never
Touched - sealed, anchored forever
To that blissful idea of 'yes'.

That is a vibration that I belong to
Through no choice of my own
No manipulation could trigger
A more effective attraction

The mating pair knows
There is no faking.

No coerced metaphors to trick us
Into a poetry that does not exist.
We simply are because we have been
Once met, and cemented forever

Into the world that our energy creates.

...takes root...

A cumulative request
To love without concept
Of what may or may not come.
Not to love one, but
To love life
Despite the curves of the unknown
Impulse
Unpredictability
The unforeseen bumps that steal us away.
Residing in skin
Resilience takes root
Better to have used mine well
And earned battle scars
Then to have loved without depth.

Lunch...

Lunch on Monday...

Opus X

Nocturnal
Turned intricately down.
Hinging jaw,
Wagging;
Running with wolves
A capability- refined.

Where, the use
Of diligent expenditures?
Growling,
Indistinct.. Just within reach
Of detectable,
Delectable.

Lucid huddle
Of grass and red blankets.
Finagling shoe-straps
And piercing sunlight
Preparations- defunct
Orderly nothingness.

Orders on paper
Write to hide, the right
To say nothing, the right
Reveal nothing, to write
In exchange
For-  more nothing.

Opus X
Preamble to 'almost'
My 'almost' something
My 'almost' nothing
My unsavory masterpiece
Of perfected seclusion.

The 'X' in this case
Is red.
A brand, a burn, a scar
Turning tricks out of tricks
Filling the void with-
Void.

The rapture of the melancholy
Is the ode to the nature of their ground.
Standing hard to the laurels of morals
Despite the pilfered loss.
Deep regret, swapped in lieu
Of stalwart responsibility.

Worth the trade?
Ask me again when the deepest of wrinkles have set in
And Grandchildren come a calling for cookies and milk...
Tugging from a hemline sown in love.
I strongly suspect, the answer will be,
A "Yes".

Lunch...

Thursday...

...its dogged insight?

The smaller lines speak softly.
And in a sense, crave more.
In reading the intimate tones of another
I lose myself in the melee...
I owe the unfolding of my own tongue- more due
Than I owe my eyes the ruptured reading of another's woe.

This is my condition - my human condition
With a blistering backlog of all that awaits.
The refluent thoughts serve less purpose
I need to grip the throat of what is to come
And grab instead the grope in the dark
For all the action that lies in wait.

There will come a time when the 'Cease'
Puts a final wrap on all I've eluded to
And nothing more will ever move forward.
Why not then in this Now, don't I hold the hand of Action
And beckon something other than discord,
Into the stoic rib-cage that 'handles' my heart?

This torso of stone becomes restless in its disgust
Mutiny, if it could- to wreak havoc on arms and legs that cave in.
Could the study of trigonometry better equip the triangle,
To angle it more effectively towards purpose?
And wtf is its purpose... its use...its plight...
...its dogged insight?

The Bending

The day bumps into me
In a somewhat orderly fashion
I careen about in perpendicular thought
The pattern of my musings-

Unpredictable.

Organizational skills belie the output
A quest for process is on autopilot
My savvy heart is at unrest
For a pair of palms to please it

The psychedelic churning of all I preside
Tightens my already twisted fist
Permeable skins that ease off layers
Beg to become fused with foreign oil.

This focus is mute. It has been.
It must. There is a rhyme to the reasons
That stoke the continued need to plant
Stoicism at my chest.

To stand at this attention is an awesome duty.
The risk, too great, should I lose sight-
There is so much good that I have fostered
And for that, the bending will ensue.

A smile in a moment of weakness-

The welcome of proper standing takes note.
My efforts are unfailing.
To be Just. True.
And  Strong.

...yawns...

Sluggish innuenedos
Crack and groan
Over-tired at the surplus
Of unspent torque

The oven yawns
I sense a flippant twist;
Raging below the layers
Is the vibrant apple
Looking to get cored.

Words step out
Adding curvature to thought
But more meaning eludes;

To read what I think.
To think what I feel..
To feel what I lack...
To lack what I need-
To need what I want

And to know I stay away
Restrained and aloof
To what I wish to dive into.

Stuck in mud.

This cracked earth widens
Like the brown leaves of Fall
I fall short of my mark,
To tap the bullseye-
In dedicated repetition.

Wrap

This box is drumming
The rumble of tubes
Glowing to attract
Brain waves slur
As imaginary tales form
Echoing of how legs beg to wrap.

Things To Look Past

Things to look past:

His status- deranged to be here, goading.
The air of that commitment- stifling.
The half-dozen + 1 structure-  impressive

What would a realignment incur
In the aftermath if, "I did"?

These slightly over-lapping worries
Have always turned a mental favor
A trick I am immune from attracting to

'Smashed up against
That blistering heat
The smell of whose build
Tumbles words onto linen
Where penstrokes smear and evaporate.
Streaks of ink
Pushed out of corners
As sharpest edges
Blur in momentum.
This tickling treaty
We have signed
Some eleventh grade year ago
When English  was mandatory
In the Land of Sixteen Candles.'

First. Last.

"...can you stand this...exotic angle..."

This is a sentiment born of instinct
One that knows the melting factor found
When sunk into another.

Euphoric delirium, not replicated elsewhere

This is carnal knowledge- swaddled in love
A feeling to buffer the gloriousness poured
When sweat earns the trust of a true pair.

"I remember my first love..." -McMorrow

Do you? Well, what about your last?

Monday...

Thinking... Feeling... Musing...
Document Life.

'Out...'

The murkier colors leach
They know my mannerisms
The utility I keep
The dedicated investigation into the blur

When a better life lived
Would be in divorcing the spoil of tolerance- turned.

The lure of detritus be damned
The old sun-baked bones belong locked in their de-calcified ruin
While I roam among the living-
Out of place. 

Negotiate

Contained.

Absorbed, fleeting though it has been
Intake is involuntary
How to sift through plausible trauma
Delivering the useful
As it zips past us in frenzied circles

Movement flows
Into the days as they face me
Negotiating nothing but what I choose to make mine
Owned.

Owing no one but this self of mine
The vast prowess of potential.

Fantasies, determining mood
Lingering round each ear, eyelash and elbow
Guiding nothing but the interesting whims that fascinate
And distract.

Detracting.
Protracting.
The instincts ricochet
When the err has been caught.
And I know, I know...I know.

These moves have made me
They are mine to hassle and moan
To hustle and groan.
To laugh in abandon
And love without limit.

Polish is evident
In the arena I cater to
Smoothest edges dance along
Infinite disappearing horizons

I laud those collectibles
That stand at attention
Proudly emanating their joy
A result- of my obvious pleasure.

O to be kind to these worn shoulders
To whisper of understanding
With words that wash indifference
Off the molded tomb of regret.

Broken stones maneuver outward
As brushed crumbs of insignificance
Become swept into nothingness
Alive with cleaned slates
Too numerous to mention.

Forgiveness is key,
To the lamentable heart
Beating beneath our own lapels.

Then so it is,
That we bow to tomorrow
And bid a hearty adieu to judgment
And the wistful, pointless reminiscing
Of events and days long gone.

I will lay in bed clean tonight
Washed of the history of what went wrong
And how I got there.
And dream no more of latent criticism
And bum-fucked Egypt.

Nudging instead, the nightfall
And the moon's whisper...
Of rest, rhythm... and reinvention.

The New Order

Increments of time mean little
But what of the 'moment to moment'?
We live and breathe by the moments
The momentary bliss, heat, and horror
These are what erodes life.

"Act. Don't React" -they say...

Who the fuck art "they"?
As "easier said than done" slides in sideways.
What of those days,
When the box spoke freely- of its lust.

"Deliquescing frigidity as the body's Viceroy".

Do our 'Rights' mature as we age?
As limbs demand more while gravity pushes
Taking measure for measure,
What we require to sustain.

Time is an island- where no man can roam

We, instead, look over shoulder,
Rear-view, and recompense
All the pushed away luxuries that we ...swear...
We will keep.

Someday.

Someday, when the night was young,
And gray hair was but a smirk.
Someday came, bringing longer nights
And singular body heat.

What rights do we now enlist for...

To bring back the giggle of a 3am 'fix'.
Rolling into hips of another
Taken into side-streets past midnight hours-
Leaping into that 2:32am down,
That, with eyes closed - even
We knew the cost of, the
'Tomorrow midday yawn"

"When Life and the Night were Young..."

I had only notions of a structured future
I had promised myself that my 'Someday'-would release me.
Release me into a sea of security
Of which my today has been building.

Find time for the 'someday' to be Now.

Today, let the 'someday' sneak in,
Let it allow you to snicker and sigh
To Taste, Moan, Tickle, and Love
All that the palms may press against.

Too long in the planning, the risk has errors.
Why trouble the potential of what we endeavor,
With unpredictable pause?
Coagulate. Stifle. Stilled. Stoned.

Stripped of past honors that we never gave.

See fit to engage the new 'moment',
Into a warm pocket lined with love.
Love without the loss that fear brings.
Love what may or may not come.

Love what we may not expect,
But find in our line-of-sight, on-a-dime.
Love.

There is no failure in the 'lightly we go' mentality.

I fear not at this juncture, the warm palm of possibility
As it trumps in infinite perfection,
The loss of what stays lost.
Time to put an end to the 'losing'.

Cognition- daily, if need be
In the event that we continue sucking old habits
As the new order of 'chance' dies out.

...at our feet.

Smooth sheets and polite whispering
The low rumble of kindness and care,
Tumbling into my ears.
Rustic sunsets bring justice to this ache
The day burns quickly to arrive here, now, into this night.

"Move closer..." the scent suggests
As heart rates scramble to remain calm
In this time of long-gestating release
Climbing into the warm skin of another
Has never felt so fine.

In theory, in dreams, in thought
The elbow slides outward, erasing this drought
Knees chime with hips, as the edge of heavy breathing
...dumps into the abyss of the  hysteria and havoc found,
...in "love lost in thighs".

The tongue sweats in salivary awareness
That Eden is at our feet.

Inconsequential- the day of the week,
The minute... the hour.
The clay in our hands- hardening
This kiln we create between us- Roaring.
Roasting us- from the inside, out.

This is an art,
To dance upon the Opus
That lay at our feet when all conditions align.
To articulate without analyzing
To love in the shade of harmonious ease
Where vulnerability fears nothing, and
Strength grows with every moment
Of genuine, traded care.

This lifetime is good.
To bestow such transcendent lore of the heart
To anyone-
Let alone, once... twice...
What are the chances that such euphoric interplay be found again?

They're good- I tell you
They're more than good.

If the gate of 'well-intentions' swings lightly
In optimism's favor,
That song can somehow find itself
Choreographing new chapters-
Rich with all the right reasons,
To motivate good love.

Designer

I am here, weathering through
The makeshift Monday of Tuesday
Bluesy- strong- consistent.

Here, in this now-
My mind wanders again to cartography.
The eloquence in elegant map-making
More rosey-hued intention is born.
Do I have what it takes
To act out on the diligent map-maker in me?

Consistency is a trap door
Floating always by my side
I am aware of its continual willingness
And equally aware of my own hesitancy.

Blinder...

When to wander back to that keyboard?
Back to that maroon/gray slate
A place to lay words in offering
To glean cleanliness and hope without strings?

Hope- a word, a feeling, a notion
A wish to be granted when belief is strong.

An outlook, a measure, a dedicated service
A place to call home when the heart is at rest.
Hope. A dream. A whisper
A cloud without intention...
Or is that hope at all?

Does hope plot its course when times are tight?
When days are tough and skin tears in secret places,
Tears as we attempt to cope with loss.
What is loss? A reality? A rhythm?
A tortured possession?

Maybe, just maybe- a filter is preferred
A filter to safeguard against loss when the strings are snipped.
And the disorientation of panic evolves.
Anxiousness rivals hope and oh-
What a powerful fucking opponent it is.

Anxiety wears razor-clad gloves
Slicing away at mere mention of its name.
Red, grown more red, to stain the fists with a brightness-
So bright and dedicated to the relentless ability
...of robbing without rights.

Who bore such a tool into this world-
So grand and mighty in its reign?
Doubt. Envy. Cynicism,
All gathering to cruelly rip and rape apart,
The heart's simple contentedness.

That simple contentedness is at risk
When the racing heart is on the prowl.

Fuck that sensitivity that gives into
The Beast of Poisoned thoughts.
That cold-cocking brute that takes with teeth.
Leaving gums, jaw and eyes
Bruised and blurry.

There is an earthquake in my chest
Ripping at veins and fucking all my retrofit.
Beating the fuck out of my resilience,
Care, empathy and calm.

There is gunpowder in my head,
Lying about for the next fuse-

To. Blow. My. Peace. To. Shit.

I. NEED. A. REMEDY.

I must wax and wane this havoc
This chaos- burning at the ready.
There is much we are accustomed to-
Much we are abused by, and much we can do
To play accomplice to our weakness.

Today, I say, "Fuck this weakness"
Travel ahead to cleaner waters and
Enlist the stout muscle that has held this planet of 'Me'
Together, for 43 strong years.

Kick the doubt. Kick the envy.
Cut off the venom-spewing snake that chokes me.
Fuck this weakness. This incessant decay and rot.
Fuck it off and move forward.
Into the night of potential, hope and light.

June's End

Walking with weight- more than needed
Dump the bane that tries to trap me
Broken, behind me, minimized in the distance
Untangling these strands- meticulous
Devotion is the new habit.
Devoted to a pilgrimmage of positivity.
Hunting for sunshine and cool, beautiful breezes
To exfoliate the drudge of what need not apply.

*all I have learned.

I have propagated so much beuaty in my children.
How lucky am I to leave behind a legacy of four human souls.
How much farther will the branches of our DNA travel into the life yet lived.
Posterity is an awesome contemplation.
Blowing wind into the lungs of our offspring has ensured laughter for years to come.

Long live the lives we create, and the flow of emotional diversity.

Effort

Own this time
In a more productive manner
Lose what is worthy of letting go of.
Hold the hand of kindness.
Hold my hand in kindness.

What can talking to paper do?
Telling words to form to issue requests...
...statements...
Essences...

I know there is therapy
Lying between each line.
Experience has taught me that well.
Profound. Strong. Pure.
Elevated consciousness...

Through speaking to ink and asking for assistance-
A tool to hold in hand-
Whispering as the wrist whistles...

It helps. It has.
It always will.
It's my choice- to obey
To go back to these needs that suffer
Yes.
I will.

Architect.

Alleyways and rivers, they are often the same.
Dark, protruding, even invisible.
Winding through each pathway is what we do
To find ourselves capable of mapping where we are..
Where we go.. where we belong.

The limbo is as real a think-tank as the steps we take to enter any door.
Mulling, musing, chewing through details,
By default, our time is waxed on meaningless detail.
There is no particular rationale for why this is the way that it is-
It just simply IS.

For every one breath spent of the gilt of good living,
I have torn new teeth into ten-thousand hours of mindless consultation.
Sinking into the mire of expectation-filled contemplation.
Why can I not live and let live......
Or perhaps, I do and deny that I do, to feel more 'normal' with the way I have become.

And I have become calculated, determined, cross-referencing each motive
In an effort to cause beneficial chain reactions
That spill less milk than honey, into this world of unpredictable precedence.
But then again, they do say.......

We hunt our diamonds in the rough.

Until then, I hunt on.