i painted you away
with heavy, black brush strokes
and
slow, pastel dabs

i wrote you away
using quiet steady pens
and
blatant, loud clacks of keystrokes 

i sipped you away,
gulped you down

i giggled you away,
cried you 'til sleep

i slept you away,
awoke to your absence

you were a slow, arduous trek
up this painful mountain
with stunning views
and
crisp, heavy breaths

perhaps my descent
will be cooler,
a striking gait,
with a warm ocean
to greet me at the bottom,
the waves' steady passion
will comfort my realization
that  you   were   never  
really
here.

fall failures?

this morning i was thrilled to hear the birds 
arguin', flirtin', singin' amongst the porch vines
i was happy to have my clavicle back
and just enough french vanilla was left
for a perfect cup of coffee
out here in the swing

all this exaltation
over nothin' really
does all this deeming it so grand
mean i have lived too much?
that i have not lived enough?

the only thing that frustrates me
is the swing won't creak
and
you are not here
she is intimidated by the loud blue jay
and you.........by what?

adaptation to characterization

in all those previous acts

i quietly uttered the "no" lines,

with sheepish "yes" soliloquies

you dramatically recited

all those "yes" scenes

with silent, hamartia laden "no"

perhaps, the success of this drama

would be the decisive act

 of which roles to reverse,

seeking a grand finale of 

romantic denouement?

bees what you is

no longer a stranger
you listened
to all those crazy
love words

like a bee
you filled hundreds of combs
with sticky, sweet honey

though your hive 
was a long flight 
from here

4 a.m.

i've tree filled thoughts,
at this frail hour
wondering how......

through all those freezing winter nights
or 
beneath the heat of scorching summer suns
below your deep, deep roots
absorb water from seemingly
desert dry places

causing beautiful leaves 
on broken limbs
that provide 
shade for weary travelers, 
nesting for the homeless wren,
fruit for a hungry soul

beloved tree
blooming in a silent soul
how i wish
that i could be more like
thee

closure or hope?

all those things 

you say through prayers -

i've said a thousand times

i know god is tired

whether it be 

a 

slap 

or 

nakedness -

there are just some things

that cannot be said

with those 

twenty-six letters

we call

"the alphabet"

of illness and circumstances

the painter 

does not know

the invisible source

of his work

the interpreter 

ignores the meaning

 of the painting

the source

is not unconscious

at all

inspiration deserves

derision

i am giving it

life shows there is a vision

an ideal that 

stays vague

if not altogether

unknown 

threesome

despite the protest

of my conscious

i've decided  to

surrender to temptation

give in

consummate this love affair...

everyone tells me

my lover is 

beautiful, witty, endearing

our chemistry is palpable

it's as if

i acknowledge this

stellar dynamic

there will be no return

to my

carefully orchestrated complacency

a daring step

for a dame like me

to hell with convention

i am surrendering to this

menage a trois 

with

me, myself, and i

pulsating honey pot

to say that

she 'felt alive again'

would be

an understatement

it's as if

there are arms on

the inside,

reaching heavenward

through her thighs, 

with silent 'hallelujahs'

at their fingertips

beehives in her breasts

buzzing with a nectar

no tongue had ever tasted

and

in the middle of her forest

birds chirped

in blissful tones....

as if they had just

heard their melodies

for the very first time

it was a modern miracle, 

an unobtainable tale 

for non-believers,

a willing resurrection

where

there had never been death

sleepless

flashing lights

through broken blinds
her head 
under old sheets - 
contemplating
incomprehensible things 
such as
light years, galaxies, dinosaurs
words, desire, and god

she felt like 
a character in an
old bukowski poem

you know the type
- the girl in a cheap hotel 
after days of stale pizza
and
great sex
leaving a whiskey ring
on the gideon bible
for someone less fortunate
to clean

childhood
had taught her
to not be at ease
with this side of herself
his overwrought messages
about her soft undertones
had soiled
a soulful song
with stale seediness

conviction's caress

last night it recurred

the potential of 

this pain passing

you were there

at 3 a.m.
somewhere between my
cognizant cares and dreamy deliriums 

wearing warmly toned

prison orange

with a roughly honed  silence

sitting upon

an old and creaky pedestal

baring a placid peace 

from your private purging

i was far away

with this tattered, 

pale gown -

openly exposing

the messiness of my physical being

placating 

the purgatory of placidity

but somehow,

as things always were,

our rough imbalance

soothed me back to sleep -

a prison like cell

that freed

the bedridden parts

of my solidarity

water whispers

after heavy days

and

revolting sleeps

a wind has 

deliriously blown

my head of ugly hair

above 

those blood filled scrapes

of raw skin

and bewildering thoughts

i know

i will swim again

beneath the blue skies

despite 

the distant shore

and the loss

of my life's raft

'let down your glare'

my tale began simply enough

straight pines

margins wide, endless words

pages perfect for

bending, underlining, reexamining 

but

after a few

careless readers

'tenderness' turned into 'tattered'

and

the construction of

my tower began

brick by brick

mortared carefully

with

 apathy, indifference

able to shelter against

the most 

debilitating debonairness

or 

weltering, winsome wiles

when i imagined 

my fairy tale future

rapunzel

was not what 

i had in mind

  

madness

i decided this morning
to spend a little extra time
and see if they'd come back

we have a temperamental relationship, 
words and i
- it worked

my coffee was "luxuriant",
i'm certain sunrise
left god "breathless"...
the silent recollections
of your caress
caused prolific "cachinnating"

it seems we 
waltzed again
gracefully
in this field of knowing

if a dab of sandalwood
and hints of turquoise
did this for my linguistics

then darling,
i am sending you
crates

why, eh?

i rode home today

against the wyeth like landscape

and wondered

which i had been

to you

helga or betsy?

i identified with helga. 

her braids

and 

your rash ideals

about watercolor behavior

but, too,

the gristmill resolve

of betsy

realizing that often

silence is the most 

aggressive tone 

tempestuous seizings

they say

i cry in

delirious screams,

crush my tongue 

in repulsive rips

that life,

after these blows

urges

a sordid sea 

of staggering storms

but,

i see that

the enormous moon

rises above

cloud filled skies

and 

the windy water

whispers music

to the skin

of sailing ships

therefore,

i vow to this sea,

we will travel,

against the turbulence

and arrive

at our destination.

hands are truer than the heart

they can not conceal the certainty,

that is told by a firm grasp

nor disguise their doubts,

baring all with bitten nails

they do not lie 

about their center's warmth,

wiping sweat from anxious palms

or utter words of falsehood 

for what they write, time will withstand

so recognize in cold me

that when i say 'hold my hand',

i mean 'you have my heart'

then, 

i will incorporate the fingers of your thoughts

through the parts of me that matter

well traveled

quietly,
she packed
her telescope,
so that she could 
search the night sky for the 
"constellation of consolations"

handing the conductor
her tickets of apathy,
she reached down
calmly
for the callous burlap bag
of soulful burdens -
the one
containing her 
barely beating heart

she boarded 
the train of determination
striving to arrive
at that 
old familiar destination
of
solitary contentment

celestial observations

i want to lie
with your feet on mine
under
the lilac sheets
and
count the stars

they are plastic
and
made in china
but
you make them
sparkle
anyway

what happened aphrodite?

today
i feel stone
nothing
not even restlessness
a cautious break
from usual angst
a bit like
the little boy
in the gilded red fez
near a crowded
moroccan market
monkey on his shoulder
catatonically turning
the small tin box
a dance
he is deaf to
wafting above
the persimmons and pomegranates
i tried
coffee
a book
hot shower
old photographs
the news
i’ve one last ploy
i’m leaving this warmth
straddling
the winter grass
palms up
bare body
beneath freezin’ rain
to see if
i am still
capable of cold
then
i’ll know
if
today
you won -
but
just today