Storm's a Comin

Storm's a Comin

Monday, September 8, 2014

Infernal Light

All we do
is hide ourselves
when sun shines down
only to drop our drawers
during a full moon.


Sunday, August 10, 2014

Naked Coffee

Escape in to this gray day
with smooth skin and coffee,
white ceramic cup with eloquent
hook handle on matching
saucer plate. Steady it in
your lap, your center, & feel
its radiant warmth. Soothe
perturbed bristles and bumps
of nakedness.      Defy
secrets of early morning
shadows and what took place
last night. Breathe out brazen
in to today armored by white
hot ceramic & dark liquid mystery
before you even put on clothes.


Bruises and Goosebumps

We nourish each other by simple
touches over safe intimate precise
locations. The crease of a hip
is the folding spine of a pop-up book
the curve of a shoulder as a
pillow propped on the couch long
enough to fit the both of us, a hand
tucked into the back right pocket
a reassurance of proclivity.

     Touch becomes
dependence the type to feed from to
create or sustain life it begins
from first contact, present
for every revolving intimacy
and roulette of meaning. It's all
connectivity what keeps us alove
for worse or better.

At points like grinding gears
   touch needs lubrication: beads
   of sweat, strands of viscous honey
   streaks of baby oil. Stubble
   can be sandpaper. Calloused fingers
   and jagged finger or toenails
   create puncture wounds on
   existing imperfections that
   creams or lotions
   never seem to remove. Even
   at such a price we crave it
   a physical connection to another
   regardless of implication.


Act of Words

What is there to write
when words won't come
to a head, and all the coaxing
      won't conjure them up
      when it takes too long
      & we both grow tired?
Just the same they can come too easy
sloppy & unexpected.
Words can shoot out or
drip down & what they
say can rub away, wipe off.
Then, what is the act of writing
remains; the performance more
than the result.


Monday, June 16, 2014

Finer with Age

Finer with Age

What was once restricted to aches
in my heart have now migrated to
joints and muscles. Self-prescribed
alcohol treatments have become
over-the-counter pills, PT stretches.
Poisoned heart / healthy body
have swapped conditions. I can
scarcely imagine when it all reaches
the brain; the descent
has already begun. 


Thursday, May 29, 2014

Alternatives to Cleaning the Litter Box

Picture how mornings should be:
outside on dew damp cushions cradled
to wicker or teak chairs, peering through
mist settling over rust shrubs contrasts
against white birch, before the noon sun
burns it all away. A glass table reflects
possibility. A slug works its way across
smooth brick to provide perspective. Such
silence is rare in the unfolding of day to day.

Sunday, February 17, 2013