In here, out there nobody sees. Pomegranate seeds shred through my teeth and we accept it. He smiles and of course it’s beautiful.
A blood moon grows 10,000 times what it was, in here. Out there, nobody knows.
I count, up to seven minutes in Heaven and wonder, in here.
Out there, nobody waits.
Everybody spits venom in the eyes of people they love.
I love him for the birds, he just doesn’t belong in here.
This desert is mine.
I sleep on cactus beds and wait….with time.
The sun is mine. I’ll keep it in a locket for those days that get dark, in here. Out there, nobody notices.
I smile. He smiles, and of course it’s beautiful.
One hope sleeps across the city. Dangerous ground calling me. I stay back, masked in the shadows.
I gather moons to shed light on Him. Pathos gathers inside enough to swallow. He never asks. I cannot speak anyway.
“Collect my spirit in seven different sections,” to myself, I think. The moon never moves out of rhythm, yet here we are, water, ebbing against nature.
I’m still here. Same place, same time. I carry jazz in my hands, wishing for danger to come back. Make me afraid.
He moves like molasses. He speaks in tongue and I pray for resurrection. The Earth has stopped moving. Air does not exist. I know nothing.
The elements cannot change him. He stands acrylic. Centered for discerning eyes and, oh, the places.
Life comes to Life.
The city is restless. I hear Him breathe for eternity. Azurite sparkling in deserted winter. Ice breaks the noise. We slip into existence without heart, without home, without a chance at spring.
Cherry blossoms will come for those eyes to greet them. And He may be there, running His fingers through love, waiting for a chance to paint His canvas wild,
while I rely on mercury to settle deep into my eyes. It’s too cold to cry.
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables plate upon each other soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am just buried in wallpaper trapped in a past life guessing on about oil in still life ca…
Source: If We Could
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am
just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas
on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips
because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset
and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
without each other
I’ve settled on darkness. Where some cluster of lonely iris might climb through my tear ducts for solace, i empty space and time.
She is on her way, like last years’ frost bite she brings her shards of cold. One year, I begged her not to go but some things are not always.
Oh, she is constant. In her gray dress of mist and seasonal affection, she blends in with reality but time doesn’t stop for anything.
Once her smoke blows over capped mountain tops, I turn away from him, wrinkled from exhaustion. This effort, this tremendous light encompassing mine – I am minimal.
It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea
drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.
Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback
but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.
I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;
He is creating.
If we could put it to music
it would be your fingers
on my fine tunes,
in chords that could not exist
before this night.
We choose staying in,
underneath a thick haze
of purple and green.
Your eyes try to match me;
our deepest rhythms
naturally. We slip back –
your tongue laced with black
knee deep in daydream,
wrapped up in
several chords playing,
all of them in key.
Gripping to the cadence,
dripping with luxury,
we summon our past lives
we consult the angels
and forgive every sinner
who ever has sinned.
This is our music.
Saturday night flat –
my bottle of Jack,
your smoke gliding
down my deep
here we go.
sipping liquid nitrogen here
a quiet life wrinkles
underneath a universe
waiting to be explored by
my hands ache
not for anything
I have no need
just because they are
two honey bees scribble
across Rupi’s milk
her tragic black paperback
on a blank kitchenette
empty plastic cup
waiting for a purpose
I tell it
but who am I to
Rupi says it all
if her grace has been missed
you should find it
gather up her past
in her shadow
and twist it
into purple origami
for me to dry
that falls because
of ways men
have touched her
the hardest part of loving her desert is
knowing that it did not come