1452

Your thoughts don’t have words every day
They come a single time
Like signal esoteric sips
Of the communion Wine
Which while you taste so native seems
So easy so to be
You cannot comprehend its price
Nor its infrequency

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.

I have but a smatter of the angelic tongue;
The language of angels, archaic and foreign as the morning sun
It's to you I posit the following query:
Should I for one be ecstatic or pragmatic,
When the voice of God speaks to me only in static
I choose to believe but this troublesome quarry is all too problematic
My philosophy and logic quarrelsome emphatic
Psychosomatic and impractical

Maybe it's the infrequency with which I tune my internal radio;
And maybe I'm not listening
Or maybe it's really true what Nietzsche touted so many moons ago

I beg for sacrament
But partake in sacrilege
If its true that Soul is eternal
Or even existential
What is the sake that merits mine salvation
If I can't save even those I hold near and dear from being of Self mind
Fallacy of ego.
Global enslavement.

Thou art now subject to moral decay,
Moral display is factored in thy oddjob list,
Wherein snob-ball Lisp's are sumblime in groupie sets!!!!

Woe to be pondered,
Sky's souly to be wandered through broken holed boat's,
To neat-nice pottery stinking nets!!!

Astute loons maketh their graces high and mighty,
Where tribes stay rewinding their beginning end's of birth,
Art thou a leader from many kingdom's?
Or a lubricant to zealous curse!!!!!

Spoon's replace knive's,
Deadly sin to replace wive's,
Crimes against humanity puppeteer the market's trail,
Crumb's reach the helpless, whilst snarling dog's drag tail!!!!

Embankments to fit the streamed beauties,
Where prestine muting is sound fit to cold coated bones!!!

Infrequency goes higher to the laughing in lover's valley,
Wherein pin's to sportsman's ball goes rallied,
Tallied up zero to zero four score!!!

None makes a difference if thou art the lonely beggar at loves lost door!!!!

A premium stands by for the serpent who make's it's pass,
Crawl through the fiery hole thou stained creature,
Step out betwixt the cities of the now and forever future!!!!

What I still and will continue to love about your eyes are...

the multitudes of hues and moods embedded within
Gripping abundant roots of attractive backwoods
and memorable fruits beside a glass of sweating beer that is on its way to finding room temperature
To name a short plethora of goods

Not to mention but rhyming about  Emotions that ensue
from a few
all inclusive spring rays shining into branches of oak and cedar needles
painting shadowy sharps on the  
greening blades
cast out under and around them

Summery flares shot between the solar
sparking luminescence

Shutters of blue steam breathing when winter is  looming and when it has come

I don’t even need to mention fall
since I would wager
Mother Nature stole every grade and color
from your visionary pair of awareness
Like a psychedelic alchemist enhancing each wordless life form into artistry
From her droppers of autumn in associated definition
anyone sees when thinking of the 3rd quarter
From trickling infrequency of leaves falling
spread out on course
with all end-of-the-line runnings of any pillow top creek
sweeping across the horizon tiring out in a dry bed of mossy river rock
These are what I still
and
will continue to love about your eyes

and the day will come
when someone will ask  
requesting me
not to write about them again
Opens the arsenal
for the most tragically moving poetic scribblings
leaving their ring
in the dust with her silent questioning
“What in the ****?”
and
The meaninglessness of their dollars spent

i can't remember the last time
i cried myself to sleep.
i guess that's a good thing.

i can't remember the last time
i cried two nights in a row.
i guess that's a good thing.

well,
good if it lasts.
it's good until that next night comes,
and the next,
and the one after that.
and each and every time,
silent tears roll down your cheeks.

so i guess it's a good thing that i can't remember.
but that also means that when i fall,
i fall hard and fast,
and i shatter
leaving so much more work to do now
than what would have ever been needed.

Drowning in cigarette smoke
My throat burns
As I laugh at another of life's trials
But to me its no more than a joke

How can this beautiful world
be taken so seriously
I was not put on this Earth
To participate in this ugly monotony
Cant you see?

My hair is the color
of the night sky
My cheeks blush the same
pink as a rose
My mind wanders like a butterfly in summertime
And I hate doing what im told.

I do not love like others do
I have fell for the sun
the stars and the moon too
It is hard to know when love is true
But I have learned true love is never fleeting
It will always be returned to you

I am growing old very fast
As I write this poem it remains in the past
I will never be as young as I am right now
What to do
With an hourglass
Winding down

If I could have only
Made the good times
Last a little longer

I know more heartbreak lies ahead
I beg you to let me down easily
As I try to keep my heart tender
Regardless of loves infrequency

As the ceaseless wind blew through my hair,
staring at the broken and muted trees in despair,
the gloomy clouds careening in flightless formation,
the damaged sun slowly fading away in drunken stages,
my face was smudged with sunken dreams that had no
serene beginning or ending, creating infrequency within me.

My heart was broken, moaning in overstretched syllables
and vowels, swirling in sourness, consumed with tiredness
and stressful states that took me to various paralyzed places,
divorced from the source, no remorse for the course that I had
enrolled in from the getgo, slowly drowning away in secluded
sound stations, my shoulders slouched, my chest divested,
detested, my arms torn, deformed, sore to the core, my eyes
filled with bittersweet tears, so many fears, disappearing bliss,
missing a lost love that I wish would return to me.

I tried to play it cool, but I was losing myself in you,
crashing into your dashing fashion, wanting passion,
but collapsing at the shattered sounds of rejection,
how foreign my love was to you, that it didn’t even
penetrate the astonishing walls of your heart,
that you wouldn’t even welcome me inside your nation,
to seep into the strength and complexity within your gravity,
to grasp your hands and feel the softness and hotness
overtake me, so out of control, daydreaming about ecstatic
scenes with you that became so hazy that it was completely
valueless to remember the memory of having you.

Somehow still plenty
Of energy left
Fell asleep on the couch
Then into my bed crept
Like a crypt for the restless
Upon which I write
With increasingly recent
Infrequency
Nightly
Entire day typing
Like lightning
A living
Is humble and honest
Yet fraught with misgiving
I taught
More tautology
Wrought my own ends
As I sought the renewing
Undoing it pens