Half Awake

through the window
crescent lucidity
shapes a conical design
against the flowered walls
of heaven’s devine

sleepy delight lingers
in memories of midnight kisses
saccharine lips and fingers
caught up in coiling tresses

there is ecstasy in touch
a vivid intimacy in whispers
blindness in belief
and a stolen quiet moment
before the shudder of release

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Roundabout

Ontologically aroused 
by the throes of open mouths,
 

and the Hope and The Foam
of a Thousand years ago.

He spins and spins and spins
on his own silly whims
in pursuit of the meaning in folly.

While songs take their course
to the sounds of ricocheted remorse
wrapped in the dulcet tones of Tomorrow.

Criss cross the game is lost
before the box is opened.

 
What he's looking for doesn't exist;
the universe was just joking.

 

 

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Intimate Distance

What a sickly, confusing disarray
child imprinting becomes.
Nobody is perfect, but –
when are the flaws too much?

I’m caught in the fly trap
of lies we’ve told ourselves.
Not sure what question to ask
that unlocks the monsters’ cells.

Does responsibility lie
in helping or in letting be?
When they’re adults too,
even if they can’t see.

I don’t know them,
nor do they understand me.
I sit with strangers
underneath the Christmas tree.

 

 

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Piece of Mind

In-transient transigence
Is what we have become
A delightful array of pathogens
Circling around the sun

Together we are a whole, made up
Of lonesome broken healths
Twisted beliefs wrapped up
In unbreakable senses of self

He and I and you and her
Feel what we can’t see
The Gods only know
When we stop the make believe

Yet here we are and there we think
On the inconsequently real
Missing what’s important
In what we need to shield

So perhaps your are wrong
Or maybe I am right
Nonetheless, I revel
In our beautiful little fights

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Holly

A soft christening of strings:
the crinkled promises of Gods and Kings.

Smells of pine a-mist frozen rivers.
Dark blue nights wrapped up silent shivers.

Times forgotten shine like stars
above a crystal white blanket, spread far.

Inside, the color red spills into wooden creaks
casting tasty ribbons across pink cheeks.

Candies and sweet drinks and itchy warmth
fill up small bellies beside simple hearths.

While those at the table have mingled thoughts
of goals gained and memories lost.

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Honey Bee

nighthawk

Flo brings me decaf
with a plastic-sweet smile

The likable owner smiles,
his cheeks pink
scratched by their bushy neighbor in between
heated by the clink of ceramic in the kitchen.

Furrowed brows and weathered feet
float lifelong perms
around in light blue and white aprons

flip, flip, flip, lick the finger, flip, flip
There's your ticket, Dear.
take it to the counter

wrists of steel turn lunch plates into paper napkins
then into cranes
flapping away in the bacon-fumed wind.
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