The filth of life will knot, fry, and
without a mention conceal the
short strands of pure moral faith that
your innocent and forgotten
self read into real existence.
My own narrative, that of the
passive martyr, is an everyday
Charley horse before I venture
to a haven sea. The line, far
off where sky meets ocean holds sure
a firmness of purpose and loss.
I drink less and obsess under
a bright barge. (too large are these least
humored of dreams and desire)
A pile of my hair, pulled out in
anxious twists and pent up bundles,
lay as carpet below my feet.
The listless tradition and axis,
as walking stick to perdition.
Variable to a soft kind
of legitimacy. In quest
for a living definition
of the purring Lion of God.
An overdue entrance to a bed
where your old dorm blanket
and hand puppet stuffed hippo
serve as comfortable reminders
of days lived and time served.
Sometimes you share half
with a seed quartz crystal
others with a steadfast woman,
both heal with magic and mystery.
The sunlight plays on rock and iris,
as it fails to rouse you before noon.
I wanna live where the wind blows
through open windows onto lace curtains.
Where red lipstick stained glasses,
napkins and shirt collars lay.
Where beauty shapes every nook and
cranny and long hallway and high ceiling.
Ceilings so sloped and wonderfully high,
I can hear all of my cries and laughs at once.
Where we can stomp and swing dance and
slamdance and slide across rosewood floors
on wool socks we knit together. With the city
full of sounds, action, and the people we love
surrounding the elevated front porch and
a backyard of willows and crickets beneath
a silent and star soaked sky,
miles away in wild seclusion.