Stolen
My lover, a fire crying in the sun. Affliction that cannot be distinguished beyond the mask of passion. In the far distance the gentle river. I am yet to feel its cool, tender flow.
Evening’s relentless perspective bears lava skies, warning my sailor soul, still I voyage. I split my heart in two and gave away half. With reckless greed, you took the other half as well and left me shivering under the moon.
The darkness would not conceal me, cruelty assured that.
Against a putrid rank I am swallowing what once held me.
Hurt comes often but feels unfamiliar, stinging in a different artery each time.
Fragments of myself are disassembled like a mannequin; discarded remains. Scattered on the eyes of the floor. Emotional components that cannot be just snapped back into place.
My thoughts have become the silent third partner in my relationship with myself, the alpha in this unwanted arrangement.
Will is pushed around by the slightest of winds.
I close my eyes to some bullshit bumper sticker proverb: To our pain and without it, what gauge to happiness will measure us. Perspective – rather irrational. Like the nuance of water: life to some, drowning to others.
Leaving my heart ajar, an invitation for soothing, consolation did not arrive.
--Spring 2020
When Water Loses Its Breath
I’ll be swanning in the blood of an old friend, offering drops of oxygenated purity to what you once were. The suffering you cannot rid yourself of is felt. In blows.
An unwanted identity consumes you, chokes you –- yet you give what little you have left to give.
Your edges have eroded and no longer display your pageantry.
Silt is forced down your throat, covering egg bearing cradles.
The voices against what is happening here are deep, actions shallow.
Spring arrives on the saddle of sadness. The whispers of colors caducous season after season.
Political tribes brazenly rob and defile you, right under the blaze of day, without conscience.
Dipping my paddle into your coolness, lifeless shimmers cascade off the oar and back into the chill.
I’ll return to the region of the mosses, sucking in the beads that trickle from the conifers. Then in my gathering, I’ll carry these possessions to you until my dusty bones can no longer be encouraged to your flowings.
--Fall 2019
The Ghost They Called Nigger
Woke up in the morning with a
Strong blood on my head ---
Woke up in the morning with a
Strong blood on my head ---
Rope burns on my neck piece
But this soul is not dead.
Crush my lips with your hate-breath
Fill my back with a coward’s lead.
In your visions of the night
Through your slumber I will tread.
Drown my pups under river floor
No kin for me to share.
Slit my throat on angel dust
Until your sweet days tremble bare.
----Winter, 2019
Having a Little Trouble Letting Go
Early my eyes to a day just fawning where the tide has encroached high and fog hung low.
Where cries from gulls intrude upon the gentle bellows of the sea and the suggestion of salt
samples my tongue.
A sudden sadness is here as well
Now that spring has come, do the tender shoots of my conscious show? I am numb in
conception to what has been lost.
I feel a bit empty
Attempting to gather myself, I scouted the shorelines we once pathed with perfect print.
Foolishly, I looked to see if they were still there, foolishly.
Am I tormenting myself?
Her words were well lit, a formidable opponent to any resistance I may have had, I had none.
She blew into me like a summer breeze, like she was summer tea, sweet and effortless;
and left even easier.
Lies burn seconds into truth
Her heart was as big as a castle and twice as empty.
I misjudged her luxuries
thinking they would be big enough to
support happiness.
Deceived by the seduction of the sea
I tried to grip tightly to one end of the wind, a slender proposition at best. Survival
did not depend on my desires but I wanted it to.
My heart and head could not come to agreeable terms.
Time to close my eyes and let go.
---Summer 2019
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