I stepped away 
From the busyness
To have a moment alone:

Gentle waves 
Caress the shore
As I stand watching.

Dunes of sand
Lay their heads
Upon the lake's horizon.

Light reflects so 
Carefully upon  
The wake of speedboats

And I thought, "how tasteless;"
But they are enjoying 
Nature just as much 

As I - yet differently.
And that is fine.
I suppose that some

Enjoy standing 
On the shore,
While some enjoy

Riding the waves.
Which is better?
I won't know.

Sitting in the front seat of a rustic truck,
whose paint has seen more thunderstorms
than my skin has years,
you look so still,
like a porcelain doll,
with the fading light of the tired sky
casting its blue blankets over both our eyes.

Through the pitter-patter
as raindrops splatter on the roof,
in time with the erratic static
of the radios endless loops
I can hear you breathing in...
and out...

And as raindrops trickle down the windows
their silhouettes becoming waterfalls;
shadows running down your face
and over your cheeks to your lips...
down your neck,
and under the warm thick folds of the blanket
that hides wordless fingertip games.

The sound of your breath like slow tide
interrupted by a tidal wave;
a thunder clap so loud we shake.
An electric explosion so bright it wakes
the souls of the living that were secretly sleeping,
safe and sound with the darkness deepening.

My arms pull you close
and your arms pull you closer,
pressing your ear to my chest
and my chest to your ear
so tight that it's easy to hear
the my own thunder inside.

Your eyes close,
your heart slows,
and as your pulse settles down
the trees start to dance and sway,
gently, side to side,
through the wind and rain.

Our stories begin to unfold
in sleep and in dreams
as the rain begins to fade.
And through the clouds
a different trickle,
a leak;
a lonely sun beam
warming your cheek.

after a bout of giggling,
we quietly discarded
whatever we wore

and at the other
bookend of the act
the tent unzipping

a luxury of clouds
drifting to a *****
moon full ripe heavy

Talk to me about flowers and fires.
The orchids
of our collected youths
are bleeding into rose water
and being smashed into books.
For a little look
like a picture stretched under a slide
hiding, elfin to run back away from us.

In the hearth of us we wonder
what the charcoal will draw next.
Sticks on the banks of the styx
In it’s flicking midst
I can almost see
the little beat-less heart
in the center of the cherry.
It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.

In a falling little flame
accidently spilling it.

Out in Saturday mornings.
Out of school
so sliding in our nose rings.
Skiving by lying
with fist rubbed eyeballs.
The swell,
Then the classic sweetness
of the re-sleep.

Marker pen graffiti.
Feeling like elitists
because we don’t like elitists.
Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable.
(Planets are *****) on physics tables,
and writings on my hands,
but **** it man,
I won’t remember them, anyway.

Blurry nameless kisses
tasting like French lager,
or is that me?
Bellybutton shots.
Love at a coin toss
or against a brick wall was at it's best.
But there’s room for two
in this tent full of burn-holes.

Iron maiden.
never paid but
in microphone coldness
on the lips.
Lifted on the fix.
Giving the week in a night
and taking the night for a week,
with velocity.

Headbanger’s neck on
the pen-bottle ****, being used,
being used up.
Swimming against the river.
Golden Virginia,
Sobranies in the bus shelter.
And as the day's screen goes over
we still kept the bonfire
running in the rain.

That's what talks to me.
I'm laying back,
but moving forwards,
involuntarily.

oh, how
we have
grown.

we have left
that lifestyle of
hair in our faces
and scarred skin
worn like a
battleshield.
we have quit
cowering beneath
it all. we have
escaped the smell
of hospital beds and
the taste of pills
dissolving
under our tongues.

we have grown,
and although we are
a little grayer, a little
less alive,
we made it out of those
years, and that is
all that matters to
me.

come what may,
so long as the mountains
are carrying us.