#3: Hot Damn

I write about dreams
About those lovelies
My experience is true.
I don’t write about
Kisses – memories
Intact in a tucked
Away and well-worn
Journal somewhere
In my brainhouse.
Hot damn though.
That kiss in the dream
Enough to wake and
Double-take me.
I remember the
Moment when lips
Permeate and breath
Sweeps our most secret
Landscapes – when the
Lumbering lifeform
Tongue wakes up to a
Dance

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, pulling into the
Primal intertwining.
Two heads – the centers
Of being in communion
First lead forward by
The eyes, flagged forward
By confirmatory whispers.
I remember my dreams –
I remember my days as
A lover – truly, what
Separates these two
But waking up?
Hot damn.

#2: Just Don’t Call It A Stain

It is a good justice
That there are no words
For your quiet experience
Those enough to soak a soul
In India ink: cobalt, onyx, crimson.

No crescendo, no epiphany of ages
I’m talking just you and  yourself
Ducking into a parenthesis of
Breath where in the light
You see; you’ve got a
Spreading shape
Where words
Used to
Be.

#1. Can’t I See What I’m Doing To Me?

When the words don’t come home
I will not be that overprotective
Reproducer of syllables who
Goes in a frenzy

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, calls cops,
Prays, appeals, pleads with
A quiet Universe to please
Give them one more chance
With a thesaurus and they’ll be
Such a better poet when in the door
They come scampering nonchalantly in like
NOTHING. EVER. HAPPENED and here I was
Worried sick that I’d never have anything to say.

The very nerve of words today.
Where do they think they live, anyway?