Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where cold winds can flow through me
Freezing away my poor choices

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where the clouds merge into blankets of comfort
Where I can rest my tired head

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where mystery and wonder dance delicately
Enticing me to join in

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where the musical rivers sing sweet
An enchanting melody to get lost to

Take me to the Isle of Skye
So I can merge myself into its identity
And finally let go from the cruel clutches of humanity

Take me to the Isle of Skye
To disintegrate my soul into its beauty
My words just gentle whispers in the wind

Calling home the lost souls
To the warm embraces
Of the Isle of Skye

she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.

pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &

she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.

fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.

       marinated artichoke hearts.

[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.

shapeshifter, son drunk
& changing skins.
he digs up skeletons of a spanish battalion
buried
by tigers on the garden key.

suncresent
spray of blood & oranges.
new-fangled sailors once soaked
in madness.
now just starvation.

the viking speaks:
in limericks of new world poise.
his antler woven mask,
set nicely upon the shore.

seod, turtle lord
of space & time, appears only once
every lunar eclipse. bound by treatise
to the jellyfish triumvirate.
his acolyte,
bolivar t. shagnasty,
wanders the mainland in search of water
or meat of trees.

kindness
of men turns to dust & belly worms.
forgotten, the plants mutate
into root-rich empires
of fish & figurine.
million year armistice.

dr. samuel mudd,
shackled years to tide-slab &
fort jefferson. he
purifies the island of its yellow
shivering death.
hospital key.

fastforward hundred plus years
through mudd lifeline:
battle weary sneakers,
spokes sung by strum of card, the bmx
stridden boy & his
teenage mutant ninja turtle mask.

The fire of life spreads across the wide  horizon, not even the great Atlantic can stop it now. The lack of wind sends a storm of blood ******* fiends to nibble at my *****, enjoy my juices!

I sit around the remnants of someones idea of good time and rekindle the flame. Smouldering seaweed is enough to keep those ****** parasites away from my blood. Drift wood catches, crackles and keeps the morning chill at bay. Crows, chipmunks and chickadees call out to one another.

As the ruby grapefruit awakens from her slumber I notice that the moon is in full bloom behind my head. The king and queen have set and their masters have come out to play.

Miniature seabirds preform impressive aerial stunts while searching for their morning meal. Hungry crows check for crab corpses as the crimson Sun makes its first appearance atop the curvature of the world.

Reflecting rays blind me and cause spots in my vision. The price you pay for looking into the soul of God.

Cirrus clouds soaking in coral rays. Mother duck feeds her young. Cool sand between my toes. Searching for sticks to spread the flame, running free, no better place to spend one's hard earned sand doller.

All Day
I could stay by the window
Listening and watching
Clear gray skies
And the fall of the rain
On a Summer's day.

I woke up
and found my friend far away
as I ponder what a friend is
and how soon can we all Skype
if it really matters
when you come to visit
will I have gone
swallowed your abandoned names and words
as you pull upon my own discarded pages
and we miss us
as we long to be each other
be ourselves in muscled trueness
Sure the other's place
will round our arms with the strength we lack
walking new streets
exercising our tongues on the ancient, baby green phrases
watch our skin contract
as we learn to deftly act
and somersault through agate hoops
mine for yours
yours for mine
we love to change traditions

We fought to keep our balance
as the island burned around us

Tears mixing with the waves
like unbottled messages
sent to speak our sorrow to other shores

I'm afraid to jump the gun
And express the welling tide of feeling
Because how can I?

You would drown.

Or run away from the flood of my arms
And curse yourself for approaching the shore.

So I mark off the edge, and warn against those who would swim.

But I want you. And I'm sick of this island.

Though it is safe and though I can do no harm here, I can't be satisfied with the messages you send; delivery by bottle.

Drunk on the words they contain, I need more from the source.

So I'll jump the gun, and suffer a shot to the foot of course.

Nick