If you could fold
Space and time
To move me closer to you
Would you?

Words tire.
There are so many other ways
To communicate what we want to say.

Touch me with the holiest part of your body.
Read my face like the blind do.
May our fingertips interact
Like lovers
Meeting after years apart
Hungry for the other’s touch.

Inhale deeply.
Breathe me in
Like I am the oxygen
That’s been absent for too long.

But you look through me,
Past me,
To some place or some thing
I cannot see.

Where are you?
Why have you gone?

Maybe you were never there.
Or maybe I never existed.

Te quiero comprender en un idioma que no se todavia.

Mis lagrimas vienen
como las estaciones del año
concentradas dentro de un momento,
y mi dolor rompe la piel
sin fuerza
como una nueva navaja.

Cuando sueño contigo,
no te tengo.
Y cuando estoy despierta,
agarro una niebla
que esta siempre un pie adelante.

Me muevo adelante
hasta que el aire se despeja.

La belleza del cielo me hiere.
Quiero volver a la neblina que bloquea
la luz que me perfora por mis cejas.

Sea mas fuerte.

For so long I wanted to test the durability of your jawbone, but at this moment I’d take a slow tracing of your jawline with the tip of my ring finger.

When you feel the warmth of my gentle grasp around your fragile neck, know my intention is but to take your pulse with the entirety of my hand.

And when the humidity of my hot breath reaches your lips, don’t blink–I want you to see everything.

Autumn approaches.
The time has come to shed skin.
The familiar molting, predictably occurring
Nearly every year during summer’s death rattle,
Begs a change in us.

Shall we harvest our souls–
ripe within our fleshy stalks–
To discard the old
And worn
And expose the fragile new?

Change will occur
With or without our approval.

How much are we willing to steer?

We let go when we don’t wish to be held accountable for mistakes.

Assertiveness  is not a risk everyone is willing to bear.
Gambling, if done smartly, will get you to an apex carefulness and guardedness cannot,

But I’ve always loathed the lottery.  And don’t care to bear the risk.

I am thankful.

Contemplate and meditate on the words “civil rights”. Break them apart, put them together, delve into meaning and origin and evolution in conceptualisation through the ages and you may find yourself rethinking what is right and what is wrong regarding your own belief system. Self-critique can be hard for those who do not practice it often. Critique of the collective is difficult from within when you’re afraid to question, but without it, progress is inert.

We aspire to reach a point of stasis that will never come. Some of us dream up “paradise”, “heaven”, “moksha”, “nirvana”, and so on. Some of us realize it cannot be achieved and thus the perpetual ride on the mousewheel is regarded as futile–we are atheists/irreligious. What am I? I’m just a thinker and an observer and living life often juxtaposes my ideals because my ideals are my own and very rarely incorporate the many factors from outside forces. Those factors may alter an outcome. If we cannot fault such outcomes in nature, why fault it in ourselves?  Why not choose to understand why we function as we do rather than create concepts such as “sin” and the act of “sinning”? (I obviously come from a Christian background.)

Instead of being taught how to live freely, we are taught how to enforce boundaries.  The boundaries set forth by institutions such as religion, government, education, media, economics, and technology.  Freedom, ultimately, cannot be achieved this way.  It is naive to think it ever could.

Those without boundaries are more free than I’ll ever be.  And I deceive myself to hope or dream for freedom when I am not prepared to first knock down the walls I’ve been building since social programming began.  (I am positing walls or boundaries are created socially and presume individuals do not create boundaries for themselves on their own.)

But they’re not just social.  There are elemental walls. Biological walls.  That I, alone, could never cross on my own.  Is this a personal impetus for procreation? Do I care that much? Care enough that I’d be willing to start a line sharing my own DNA so that I may, eventually, have something to do with a species more evolved than my own?

We don’t really think like this before acting, do we? What kind of inner dialogue is going on within the mind of a man before he slips his manrod into his hot, tight, and slick orifice of choice?  Or a woman who’s about to place her mouth on her sex of choice?  Or before lips meet. Is the line from departure to arrival straight, curved, jagged? Is it alegro, andante, or adagio? Does it crescendo and/or decrescendo?  And upon meeting, do you linger? Are your kisses staccato or legato? Are the movements of your hands musical in conjunction to the lift and fall of your lover’s bosom or hips.  Do you bend with the arch of her back or the thrust of his groin?

Are you fluid or solid? Do you expand to fill the shape and volume of your container?

I wish US culture was more comfortable with dance.  More than just the vulgar movements in common clubs or the rigidity that comes with years of formal education.  To learn to communicate or express ourselves physically without the need of spoken language.  To be fluent in the language of movement seems scarce, but precious.  I am envious of the  cultures that can come together in dance and celebration at complete ease because it is ritual.

Not all music is dance-friendly, of course. But, movement can still occur.  Just in another…dialect?

I meditate too much.

“My face beneath the street lamp. It reveals what it is lonely people seek”

He strummed his strings with such fury
I was rapt with awe
and a wonder
locked between
the land of sleep
and waking dreams.

He was uncharted territory;
his face–unknown.
His eyes–dark pools of liquid gold.

My reflection was
but a silhouette
rippling atop his murky depths.

“Free me,” I whispered
with a kiss
upon his surface tension,
breaking it with delicate force.

But push became pull,
and I slipped through
losing my footing
to give way to complete
submersion.

we have partaken in yet another poetry exercise.

Here are my bits:

Pressure:

Under Pressure
Bowie said it best
But Mercury sang it best
It weighs down
Pierces, even
Liberating.

We are liberated.

Zoo:

You crow
And you leech
And you fish
Like tadpoles
In the spring

We were whole
In the open

But caged
In the heart.

Inchworm:

You inch while I mile.

For so long
I questioned
I presumed
I made guesses

I attempted to
Coalesce
But

You inch and I mile

And that will just have to do.

Burnt toast:

Awoken
From dreams by the permeating
Scent
Of your burnt offering

I am not pleased

In fact,
I wish to return you
For a George Foreman grill.

Inert Gasses:

You lie dormant.

You encapsulate
And encompass
My whole.

But then I am merely a part
To the whole.

This hierarchy asphyxiates
And freedom isn’t an option.

Application:

Theory here
And theory there

And theory up
Theory down

Theory from the West
And theory from the East

And after all this time
I just want
A bit of
A tinge of
A smidgeon of

Some Application.

Unfortunate Events:

In the case that I
Forgot my umbrella
I left a poncho beneath the seat.

But when the rain came
The poncho was glazed
With 2 month old Coke Zero
And the umbrella

Blew away.

Belief:

What I know is what I know is what I know is what I know
And then
I’m a year older
But then
I’m five years older
And in ten years
What I know isn’t what I know isn’t what I know isn’t what I know
Or
Believe
Anymore.

I am in flux.

Bliss:

Bliss was
Cotton candy spun
And woven into
Billowing chaos
Encircling
A sacred stick for my consumption

You dissipated on the tongue
Encompassed by the saliva
That was your demise.

You reappear at the bottom of the latrine and
No longer do you taste as sweet.

Caulk:

Seal my crevices
With your strong,
Hard,
Pristine white caulk.

-Morning-

Birds sing.
Their chirping does not rouse
Gently
But abrasively
Because I want to be deep in dreams.

Your warmth only reaches
So far;
I have to make contact
To sate this
urge.

When our skins
Interact
It’s as if I feel you from the
Root first
To the tip.

You are so cold
In parts,
But our friction is like
The lightning strike

And our scents–
Emergent ozone.