Trust that all is. Leave past as primer, present as possibility, future as mystery.
Fumble. Fall. Feel.
Or your life
will be lived
Up to no good again
Serpentine avenue, street lights blaze,
As for myself, I just stray,
My best wandering is done, during the days
Under the moon’s watch, I cannot go far, so I’d pray,
Yet, my most memorable mischief’s, invariably by night,
Only to be shared with sidekicks, partners in crime,
Often sober or high - all we’d need is a pint,
Each offense, as a vignette, I hold frozen in time.
Then again, there is the distinct possibility that I am simply losing my mind.
I struck another match, mesmerized,
The flame first leaps, then subsides,
Like a timeline, exhausted, notch by notch it chars,
How they play sad music to get you to leave bars,
With a whisper, I end its life,
Ephemerally vivacious. Alight.
Snapped, tossed into an ashtray,
Careless. Fading in a pile of gray,
Barstool, a pewter cloud escapes my lips,
Destructive monotony. My life’s an ellipse.
Oh, Do Swear By the Moon
Shakespeare called the moon inconsistent.
Well, I suppose that was Juliet.
Yet, I look to her every night.
She, without fear, shows me every aspect of herself,
In a way that I never had the courage to do.
I don the same mask in the light as in the blue.
She’s fearless: sometimes half, sometimes whole,
A fragment or a shadow of herself.
Still - Open. Honest. And Free.
If I could but be like the moon.
Embrace both my weakness and my strength,
My darkness and my light,
Accept when I’m only half the self I want to be,
And see the beauty in vulnerability.
I fingered the paperbacks scattered across your desk, bookcase and bedside table, warmly noting all the dogeared pages espousing something you wished to note before discarding it into another nondescript pile, wondering if you ever go back to finish what you start.
I wish I never would have gotten into that cab,
Without telling you that I loved you first,
But longings and wishes,
Won’t quench this thirst,
For your lips, mouth, hands, fingertips,
Hair, eyes, beard, slim torso, that laugh,
That smooth baritone cooing “I love you, te amo,”
A colloquialism that I couldn’t seem to say back,
I don’t know how you could have not known,
But I see that cab ride as the split in our path,
If only I had told you I love you,
And then left it at that.
Love in Capitalist America II
Let’s get a mortgage on a house in the suburbs with a two car attached garage, so that my SUV and your pick up truck can sleep side by side while you and I sleep sprawled out side by side in a cuddle-deterring king size bed. How I’d love to watch you mow our lawn in the summer time and bring you lemonade.