Falling in the River

For so long my ever wish was

of living in the river

sunning in the echo

of engineered dreams…

so much so that I prematurely

rested all my substance

on flotation devices

riddled with red flags

buckled with blackened holes

willing them to keep me afloat…

no regard for their cocksure collapse

no regard for their destined decline

no regard for my own

chronic choking of water…

Then, suddenly, the bather wore a new skin

I had no affection for

living in the river

sunning in the river

or even being in the damn river…

I wasn’t even sure the shore was

a safe place for me…

Then, suddenly, the bather wore a new skin

and here I am flirting with the idea of

holding my breath under

clear blue glitter river droplets

that parade through my floating black hair…

coming up for unfamiliar air

even as I am

holding sparkling waves of once confusion

in my hand like a puppet master

flirting with the idea of living in the river

with you

just with you…

not with your potential if

only you didn’t have so many

damn flags and holes…

But you

just you

in the river

where we wear

the wetness

like new skin

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In the Morning

In the last minutes

before the alarm

my mind works to hold the

weight of your strong thigh

across my body…

the feel of your

quick-pause-quick

sleep breaths

against the back of my neck..

the way my breast fits perfectly

in your cupped hand…

and the feel of your skin

against my stroking thumb.

The alarm sounds

the spell is broken…

Forced to disentangle my body from yours,

I miss you before I’m gone

and my heart beats

whispers of words

I cannot yet speak

Paper Doll

She was made for this,
She was the vibration of marbles falling to the hardwood floor.
And the jolting sound of playful knocking at my knobless bedroom door.
She was a faint calling to the kitchen, from the bottom of the stairs.
She was the stifled sobbing of a heavy head, demanding I be there.
She was many things I’d left behind, as holy to me as they were small.
She was the joy of my last Thanksgiving dinner, and the sadness of a tattered paper doll.

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The Dance

Wild Heart Scribe

Purple beneath me

and to both sides…

genesis of

sunrise sky

above and around…

crossed limbs

opened palms

sense of

chilling space

above and around…

you claimed

my attention

at the start

but eyes soon closed

to the unfolding,

leaving

only sound to

pave my way…

but you

lifted my chin

coaxed my

eyes to open…

I looked up,

you found me

again

and you danced in

fluid circles

at first…

at first

you danced in

fluid circles

then quick floating

darts here

then there…

dazzling my being

wooing my essence

with your

flight

flow

flurry…

you danced for me…

the haze that tailed

your movement

as absorbing as

your seraphic light

until impulsively

you burst into

atmospheric dust

once,

twice,

lost count,

reaching

away

rippling

away

from your center

like a firework,

my mouth wide

in wonder

in homage

in applause…

then back to the dance

until the solis…

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Love Is For…

Love is for suckers…

or maybe its for believers

Was I the sucker

or was I the believer?

Maybe I just sucked you dry

or maybe you never believed

A futile tale –

twisting side to side

landing on its back

feet kicking against

the low hung ceiling of

it is what it is

No princesses and princes

No,

soldiers and victims

warriors and prey

Suckers and Believers

We all play our roles unaware

until we are…

AWARE…

and then

and only then

is love lived…

by the suckers and believers

Make Believe

I hear my mind call your name randomly throughout my day

and there is a part of me that hopes it skips along that

invisible line that connects me to you

hoping there is a line connecting you back to me

wanting you to hear my yearning

wanting you to never know

wanting you to answer

wanting it to all remain unspoken

a secret I can pretend to never whisper

so I never have to know you pretend not to hear

The Trench That Darkness Builds

Wild Heart Scribe

Is it time for you to
not see me with opened eyes?
Has the time come for you
to hollow out your circle trench
and stand on panting ground
in the middle?
Is it time for me to plunge
across the waters of partition
that march in?
My cool water cries
splash sizzles on your face…
not enough to bring you back
you’re too far
inside
so I swim away
pull myself up and over
the dirt edge
built by darkness.
It’s hard for me to sit
on the sunny bank
calling out to you that
I’m still here…
what must it be like for you?
Yes, harder…
I know…
harder to suffer the middle
where darkness swells
and light shrinks
where your domain of dirt
sabotages…
so I lie back in the grass
wait to dry
wait for your trench to fill
wait for you to walk back to…

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Make Me a Believer

Nothing has changed…

Wild Heart Scribe

Everything I give to you

I give from the abundance

of my heart

I am genuinely imperfect…

I am genuine…

No final door

you can close

can stop my flow

I wouldn’t turn the knob

I would seep under

I would bleed through the wood

to get to you

No wall of fear

you can hide behind

can keep me from finding you

I wouldn’t scale it

I would blast it to bits

to be with you

No river of regret

you can succumb to

can keep me on the shore

I wouldn’t swim across

I would blend into the waters

to rescue you

I won’t chase you

I’ll make you a believer

I won’t run you over

I’ll make you a believer

I won’t stop till

You are a believer

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Full forgotten glass of anticipation
sitting on your bedside table
waiting for you to return
waiting for you to walk through the door
to rescue it from
the dust of the day
settling on its rim…
you see it
walk toward it
beads roll down its side
as it knows
soon it will be
in your hand
you carry it away
into the kitchen
unaware of the potent effect
you create within the glass filled with anticipation…
you empty it like it’s nothing
not knowing that it’s something
but the glass doesn’t mind
soon you’ll see your mistake
and come back for it
reach for it again
find it full once more…
but this time
you’ll know
that it’s everything…

When I’m Not Around

Wild Heart Scribe

I ache for another channel

to show you how it feels

to know you think of me

when I’m not around

miss me when I’m gone

wait for me to come back…

Time lapse photography

could show the paring down

of an out of tune faded heart

being refashioned

beating to a new time

as only crimson can…

Would you get it then?

Oils could show a stormy splashing

of Spartan blacks and greys

headed in no direction

with a placid lilac center

that is all the direction I need…

Surely then you’d know how I feel,

wouldn’t you?

A song could boost and heave

every sensation

set them on

a munificent banquet of

peach and mint notes…

but all I have are my words

sometimes they don’t feel like enough

they feel too pale

to make you feel the

vibrancy of what I feel

knowing that you think of…

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