Confession From Heaven

Confession from Heaven

as you can see
we have potential

although hearts burst out in tears,
locked behind bars, in chains,
against a will of their own,

we carry every blink used
to wipe away the pain,
we stand guard when the Earth
shakes underneath feet full of breath

breathe easy
we have potential
we have not lost the sunlight
of yesterday,
or the smell of a growing world

childhood kisses are fresh on our

we have not passed
we are not the past

we are your honest future
for our bound hearts
to hold each other
once again.

Fountain Of Confessions On Amazon

fountain of confessionsFountain Of Confessions

    Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!

    I Love Her More

    She has a name hanging
    in a back orchard somewhere.

    Cowbells are ringing. I gave it up
    like an omelet to a woman married
    to perfection.

    I am missing limbs for limbs,
    heart for heart. Who am I to promise
    life to another broken life?

    Her name stands on a balance beam
    between two tongues, heated tongues,
    a melting puddle of ownership.
    Where did she come from?
    Where does she belong?

    Tug-of-war. I own her more.
    Someone who should have been born
    is hanging in a back orchard somewhere.

    I let her go. I love her more.

    Old Memories Of Paris, Café Au Latte

    Old memories of Paris, café au latte,
    iron wrought on a kitchen sink
    where she slimmed her figure
    on a butcher block.

    She dangled like a wind chime,
    toes on pointe,
    testing the winds and
    the Gods on
    Wisdom of Love.

    Pretty little music box, my doll,
    bathing in sunlight
    through reflections of The Tower at
    dawn. I asked her what she saw.

    Her answer was as black as a widow
    living off space between sun flower seeds.
    I turned to her soul and spoke
    to her in cotton,
    she understood,
    souls always understand what is next,
    and why.
    I led her to confession.

    She rattled all the way,
    dangling eight unworthy legs –
    shooting silk like
    it meant nothing,
    because that is all she had ever known.

    By sunset, she had dried up.
    Everything that she had devoured
    had taken over
    and spit her spirit out.


    I can’t have you come back like August
    without water. Your limbs shriveled and
    cracking, bare knuckled,
    moving like a tree
    away from fire.

    We built moons in the back of Cadillac’s,
    coffee black leather seats
    trimmed back – to make
    room for the

    I wore thorns under my skirt, then.
    I let the pure taste rise from your voice
    and settle on the rhythm that
    rocked us into daylight.
    For you, sound lined up
    and agreed with me.

    You will come back like August always does;
    a dirty deed to compliment me,
    to bring me to naught!
    But, the moon sails on
    and without it,
    I cannot.

    Hot For War

    I’m not so angry after all
    this time, he smells like honey, hot roasting in the damp evening. 
    His carpet moves like the sea. I might be breathing, but he’s not. 
    His blood is worn out in deep veins, his secret time is up. 
    I am not angry this time, he positions himself for love and I watch,
    jammed with battle fever, I am hot for war. 
    A soldier holds no fear, and there is no time to speak.
    He engraves himself with yesterday and I wear him next to my heart.
    I am not angry after all
    this time. His blood dries up and my ache fades. 
    We are both permanent in a temporary place. 

    His Name

    just the beginning,
    slithers off wet lips with charm.

    Mockingbirds use many tongues
    to sing of slick footprints
    stepping in,
    stepping out.

    At first blush they call,
    crested blue, aggressive;
    wild for the North,
    where dragon fruit merges with devotion;
    where I found his name.

    We spread together as far as Summer could take us
    until we melted into sunspots at the edge of the Earth,
    high desert heat drying out our love.

    Later, we flew south in high, asthmatic screams;
    nocturnal – fugitive.
    It is never the first time.
    It is never the last.

    His after tastes like a razor blade,
    but I am a glutton and I cannot
    let go of his name.

    A Lifetime Of Love

    pretty girl in peach giggles
    making wishes,
    blowing quiet whispers off
    wild flowers
    pick all the petals you
    can find before they die

    green ropes soak up air
    from my lungs
    I wish
    I wish in silence
    not for me – I am done

    but for a lifetime of
    blowing kisses in
    spring winds,
    making giggles grow faster
    than wild flowers
    and petals that live forever in
    the yellow sunburst around
    your pupils

    pretty girl in my stilettos
    wishing to grow and grow
    I wish
    I wish in silence
    not for me – I am done

    but for a slow life
    of sweet summer banana juice
    and rain
    a garden of imagination and
    when you are done

    I wish
    I wish in silence
    not for me
    but for a lifetime of love

    Waiting For Me

    From the top of the blizzard
    with buzzards ablaze,
    the reaper stands watching,

    waiting for skin to drop
    or lungs to fall

    waiting for the right moment
    to steal fingers imprinted on
    the Universe,
    hearts beating on the sun,
    and moons kissing under the tender lights of love.

    He stands waiting, in every dream I dream, where your hands are
    more than a memory,
    waiting for me.

    The Fury Sisters

    This desert is muddy today,
    rats scamper under fury.
    Little girls chew
    off November toes. They kneel in provocation, stretched t-shirt
    over back yard fences.

    Dogs bark like bitches, I count them – they live free
    with dirty kneecaps, laughing at me. It is fair, I know.
    It’s the clock,
    just; disgusting me.

    The rats scurry down wet streets
    where my sister plays with
    spores. I stalk her like cat play
    while she plucks
    lice from her

    Her nudity is a familiar tub
    where streetlights meet
    sloppy abortionists. 

    Once, she was me. We shared
    charcoal milkshakes and
    flirted with shapes of sour
    angels. Now, great love,
    is dust of dead skin.
    She is piles of vomit under
    cloistered stubbornness.

    In twenty years, I will be solid.
    Midnight will dream of my desert
    and sick rats walking in
    late, chasing yellow
    mold across tarred gutters

    where her soul growls empty,
    nothing to spare.