No sundial’s gnomon could cut this air before—  
the dial long-slept, moonlight glows, lines our palms,
its grip of frost, its calculus we tore,
until our spines aligned, unguarded—warm.

The gnomon’s scorn now bends to our skin’s dawn—
its frost-etched law undone by breath’s slow rise.
Our shadows fuse as Brahms unwinds the calm,
rewriting fate in tongues that flesh denies.  

The gnomon’s edge, once steeped in solar lies,
now bends to taste the salt along our throats,
its calculus of light a husk, takes flight—
a butterfly that drinks what dawns promote.

Let ruins chant the creed of numbered skies—
our pulse, a clock that dares to harmonize.

You unscrew the jar; Orion’s climactic sigh spills—  
A cello’s low A hums—our triad, C and E—the night skies.  
Your thumb caresses pulse down my throat, andante, it drills  
through myth—not his hunt, but the damp heat between our thighs.  

We’ve plucked Lyra’s rusted chords, restrung her spine  
to thrum with your breath, not some dead muse’s cords.  
Stars crack like old records; we skip, we refine—  
our bed, a cradle for light, shed our sheer white peignoirs.  

You fear the jars dim? Let me mouth the black core  
of Cassiopeia—choke her brittle groan,  
then laugh as you arch—my crescendo, your score—  
each note a plum’s burst where her language had flown.  

Your teeth score my shoulder. The dark soars, unconfined—
We swallow the arias. Let the void choke on mine.

My son’s eyes have an innocent look.
Chocolate is the color of his lips.
Clothes once clean, are smeared with ****,
Or spotted by an ice cream cone that drips.

I’ve seen damage done both day and night,
Of a magnitude you’d never believe,
Done by my son while out of sight.
Destruction Patton could never achieve.

I love to hear him sleep, yet I know well
When he is awake, there will be sound.
He’ll make ‘music’ with horn, drum, or bell.
My son, when he plays, you know he’s around.

And yet, by heaven, I love to be with him.
Even if snot is crusted on his chin.

He is to me what kings are to their knight,
Who grants me trials that shape and make me strong.
He is the dawn that banishes the night,
Who gives me truth when all the world feels wrong.

He is a compass when I lose my way,
A steady hand when storms begin to rise.
His words are stars that help me not to stray,
A spark of fire beneath the cloudy skies.

He is to me the book the wise revere,
Each page a path to knowledge deep and wide.
He speaks, and thoughts long buried reappear,
A tide of wonder I no more can hide.

In every lesson, he bestows me grace—
A guide, a torch, the sun upon my face.

When I see the face of my maker here
I’ve never seen a more beautiful thing
My maker is not God nor is it fear
Fear is just the outcome and the offspring
So far gone are the values of our men
Fighting in the names of Gods expired
Crying for the right to love so long dead
On shaking ground but argued required
You’ll see the face of your maker and weep
When recognized by your own scarring heart
If eyes open to spot that bloodied creep
A maker’s face may close both from the start
Your matching face can only seem to choose
Decide if he’s the maker or are you

Your sigh—flute’s trill upon my waiting neck,
Awakens chords that hum beneath my breast.
Melodies where naked spirits—*****,
Notes wild and free, where passions seek their crest.

Each touch, a whole note, bodies, andante, coalesce,
A prelude to a symphony of our scents,
Where songs of pleasure swell, we gently press,
Our emotions we softly bare—no consent.

Your skin, a sun-warmed drum—hands descend,
We resonate in rhythms—smooth and deep.
Exploring with you, lost in sweet desires, ageless spent.
I taste the salt where gentle currents seek sleep.

Our inner music flows, a tide without a name,
In Gaia's Soothing Haven, our bodies, unashamed.

short breaths, short breaths!
  under a crescent moon
i'll descend with you to the deepest of depths
  --my grand misfortune

i have considered the ocean
  and sunk onto the earth
my bare feet swimming on the grass' motions
  for despite drought, a shower of chance is enough to drown me with
    mirth

i have considered the lilies
  and have caressed them, oh so lightly
laid my hands on the soil with so much ease
  fingers, frolicking, dancing idly

i have considered your existence
  and once have i ever been filled with persistence

He carries round his window cleaning gear
whistling some well known bohemian air,
wears gold earrings, (street cred' is now so dear)
and runs up his ladders like bedroom stairs.

Tanned and sleek, full of self-confident wealth,
he growls, '' you're next !"  (in hope to hear a purr?)
rippling muscles, bouncing around with health,
with a chest full of lush, gorilla, fur...

He cleans windows like an athletic cat
stalks those streets, an animal on the hunt,
but I know the repertoire, all the chat,
and the ****** way he says '' back'n front ? ''

'' Shall I do your inside's, there's not a spot missed? ''
As I'm paying him I think, '' Yeah... as if! ''