this is it

this
is it,
the end
the beginning
and the intermission,
this
is between breaths,
a sigh or
heaving chest,
tears followed
by smiles.
this
is it,
the edge
the verge
and the threshold
of pain,
of freedom,
of
letting
it
all
go.
.
.

lips stick

stuck on words like lips
stick to tongues tied in
kisses, thoughts form and
fumble down the page
turned into poetic ink
blot tests: do you see
the naked girl in the verse
or the flaming moon
of universal emotion?
this constant motion of
penning page after page
propagates leaf litter
bound and tied, it goes
its own way like wild
horses in my head,
herding thought-feelings
in pens of ink-stained
fingers, lingering scent
of rain falls on my heart
broken open, bleeding
what i have to give, every
breath till death do me part
of the way to eternity.
i hear Trane a comin'
blowing sadness away
note by note.

personal sea

my dear, my sea, my salt,
personal wave, intimate tide:
living with your beauty and fury,
i lose myself in your surf.

and that
is okay.

scarcely do i need to be
found, tangled in your heaps
of seaweed; no, just leave me
on the rocks, under the logs,
below the gravity of tears.
i'll find my way back, don't
worry, the moon may guide me,
the sun will call me, the stars
will bind me to a charted course,
sailing home,
sailing home.

savior

music my savior, friends and loved ones
my savior, musical friends i love: my savior.

a bowl of stones sing grace amazing,
melodies to melt to, melting under
caring hands massaging my cares away.

i always seem to find a way
back from darkness, walking under the moon,
as high as a tree, rooted as a tree,
finding shelter under a yogi tree.

the air is a silent symphony, as cold
and still as the space between stars.
every place and time can be a playground,
a song and dance, a chance to laugh,
to chase coyotes or receive the ridicule
of a posse of ducks.

and that's all it takes, all that is needed:
a friendly presence, the gift of friendly grace,
wisps of green wisdom, the singing earth,
a singing bowl of stones, and a heart flower
opening: laughter--my medicine, my musical
friend, my savior.

sea the sun

see the sun, sea and sun walking
together in this season undone
by unexpected reflection, internal
combustion of scattered tears fused
to fired desire, the compulsion to act
on an emotion in motion, to wax with the moon
and to cup her fullness in hands outstretched
in prayer, in gratitude, to adopt the
attitude of letting go, of letting it all go
so i can fill my cup once more
with the dreamy light of the moon's fruit,
hands cupped in prayers of gratitude,
attitude shift and change of perspective,
refusing to hold onto the refuse of self abuse,
i have no more use for this mistaken
identity misshapen by clumsy hands
molding this all-too-wet clay.
no, it is an internal combustion firing
this desire for feeling higher and adopting
the attitude of gratitude for all things
under the sun.

see the sun, sea and sun walking together,
the sea and her son, me, reflected,
perfecting the moonlight, the fruit of
mutual influence, i am the confluence
of day and night, i am growing towards
her tranquility, the sea of endlessness,
ocean of possibility, i am fast becoming
my self again, seen in light of day,
seeing the sun reflected in the sea, i see
myself in the sea's reflection, the salt of her
waters attracts my heart, magnetic,
finding the purpose of the shore,
finding my purpose on the shore,
once more feeling love by the shore,
once more, by the shore.

see the sun, this season, the sea
and her son, the sea, me, the sun,
filling up, filled up, overflowing,
overflowing.

noli me confundere amore

do not confuse me
or my acts of love
with me or other
acts of love.

i am not an ideal,
i am not a wish
nor a fulfillment
or an expectation.
i am a mirror,
a polished surface
reflecting your desire,
distorting your vision
of who you are
and what you want.

but i am no dream.

just a coincidence,
a mere whim and fancy
dancing in your eye.

do not confuse me
with love.

stimulate this!

exhortation of death
and taxes duty to the
union, booty loot man and
woman extorted in come tax
what we ain't got, some use
the word dispossessed
like we ever had some shit
to begin with; some of us are
disenfranchised, as if we
all been a golden arches
feed lot of excess but some
fat neck fool stole our pickles,
put the meat in between the buns
and pulled it back, so don't
vote for cows.

how many of us really
been developed by a white sheet
boardroom plan, had our
economics stimulated
cheap whore-like, suckcoming
to food bank lines with broken
backs from fractured tax breaks,
and still we plead to these fuckers:
please break us off some, pray
please Lord deliver us from evil,
but there ain't no heaven cuz
we forgot, oops, we logged that bitch
and siphoned it away.

yeah, lordy lord, deliver us and bedevil
us with crown thorn worship
miracle blood...that's some racket
you're runnin' up there lord...
i'll sell my soul for some stimulation,
the virgin mary don't put out
anyhow, never did.

but them robed pedophiles tell us,
you'll get some stimulation
on your knees.