on jazz

music is a narrow
word. that art
of sound. jazz
is a thin moniker
for black magic:
washing over white
lies like
fallen chains reclaimed
as instruments of spirit
speech. structure re
formed from some
enlightenment
reverting back to dark
drums, remembering.
the freedom of a fetish.
feverish
and spitting fire.

there, the skies
that float. scraped
by buildings. the rain
trumpets some
melancholy. a
dampness in dark halls.
precise. airless
and sinking, you,
pulled inward. friction
only in spare number
when it’s a freight train
blowing by.
you shiver.

this is never done. but
now. it screams
to a boil. echoes
multiply. a simmer.
and magic tricks
you into understanding.
this always was.

butterfliegen

as if
to re
treat, myself
to a luminous
past more
like happy
memories, or these
wishes for her,
to be, present
in a prescient
future I see
but cannot. it is
only now. with
out_her. over
there. in an
other life, yet
intertwined like our
wine, grapes
traipsing around
vineyards of time, inescapable.
as a kiss. though
we missed that
harvest.

and this, a
new season, aged.
are we any
closer to completion?

my heart, beats
it never forgets:
her rhythm
in my blood. in
my bones, her
reverberation,
an aching echo.
yet,
her laughter. always.

midnight musing

in this firstborn night, of
you I muse, of you
and your mystery.
outside the air stills, frost
falls in a glassy touch.
those distant stars that dream
my children and their quiet sleep.

moon turns to me, to you
and your face. your lips.
do they think of me?
my eyes, dark in the dark,
search for you. this long
yearning that unfolds. this
palm upturned for you.

earth that becomes your flesh,
my fire for your fire. desire
waxes, moon wanes stars
in its wake. these quiet moments
so long and wistful. your touch!
my fire for your fire. this night,
hidden the way hearths heat hearts.

unknown certainty

it is never
enough
to know
for certain.
unknowing
is a backwards
certainty, though
I’m not sure
I understand.
even still,
what I want
or need meet
in some middle
battleground
of crunching
thoughts and
combative feelings.

this irony of love.
paragon of heartbreak.
opportunities missed,
chances taken.
or not. unspoken
dreams. the tumult
of this timeless
struggle. still
I seek clarity. from
distant eyes, flamed
lips, smiling
mischief, her heat
subdued.

the far away

a wandering, less
in familiar forests, dark
and disparate. some seeking
of information in form
and sensation: a new season.
a different bridge
spans that unknown river.
we navigate. construct.
into frontiers tears precede.

a life as wholly capable as this.
a love unwrit by broken lives.
to carry a dream
unfulfilled unto its own illusion.

we cannot understand, even
with wonder.

eyes closed, leaping into
a crazy abyss.
the way we commune. consume
those flames of unrelent.
some circumspect
emotion trailing off
into wilderness. still
we follow. who
could write such intrigue
without narratives of circumstances
dictated? by some innocence?

love is a transgression.
we crucify ourselves nonetheless,
seeking redemption, some
form of understanding. even
where none is forthcoming.

intelligent negligence

intelligence, telling
in this negligence
of what’s
known: this
is not the time
to dress in petals.
flowered perceptions
perfumed
by lust.
must I really
think
there is some
     --one
     --thing
out
there for
me,
in this
with pretty
please topped
cherries?

merry meet,
merry part.

I have met
that part of me
that hates,
which loves,
who has no
thing to hold on
to, just
smooth-illusioned
mirrors.
fickle
like the sea.

imaginary

imaginary, an
image mirrored
as if
mind
is miraged. mislead.
to think
as truth,
yet
there are
only these
fictious
scenes enacted as
played stages.
playing
the self. the
fool.

a clown’s
act. in jest
of surety. so
sure
this is
real. fucked up.
like
a pile of junk
dreams.
I could’ve lived.

so
I do.