#1
a thousand words & more/a portrait of love

in an exuberance of emotion, the tailored trials
and tamings scented with the chase-
it was a race on foot, only to break the skin
and teethe on such fruitful endeavors.
(may each seed find its way by petal, pollen
wind, or otherwise.)
even our shadows tell of tales as these
stretched as words upon the hardwood floor-
it dawns on me and sheds a light not unlike your own;
that each night that has passed before
and each morning after is a spin cycle of our lover’s clothes
but most importantly: our own inhuman nature.

--

we lay in the grass and leave such greenery to our knees
and we would hop those fences that posed such brighter
shades upon the other side to kneel beneath these;
but upon a time our mouths had grown the vines
that once tracked that Juliet wall I could scale
just to feel that it was worth the weight.
so such poison ivy or oak
could mark and scar the mission of our hands
trailblazing through such uncivilized wilderness
with nothing but clear cut arms hunting for a show of ivories
that could prove just barely worth it.
even now, I can collect on the royalties of the animal kingdom
and my eardrums are stretched still from the trumpet roar
of such beauty and tranquility.
(the human nature becomes 2nd.
to none.)

--

but we have shed such tears of the night
and our summer coats soon would fashion the floors
a taxidermy of where our bodies would lay
soon to go stag, leaving my head upon a board
far too tall to reach.
and so the old sparks
become the new flame that could lick at our Achilles heel,
that will swallow this entire lush wilderness
as nature takes its second course
and we eat our words.
the autumn takes its leave; crumpled underfoot
as the passersby leave bedroom cigarettes carelessly
that would hang upon your every word as I
but such ashes and embers of amber could catch
our trails off guard and unprotected as our sex:
our hands, blushing in the things they commit
leave the matchbox mattresses (striking, really.)
to consume the old oaks where our signatures could’ve been carved
to leave only worn rings that tell of the years
readying the soil to begin again
teaching the immortal lesson of our humane nature
that we must migrate to monogamy
and return to the places where we first found ourselves
that space we had known forever to be imprinted in our brains
as close as instinct, second nature
the olive branch hovering so closely above
the roots of her hair resting just below me
leaving the graves of old affection to be stepping stones
as bridges over waters once far too ravenous to attempt to cross
when we came to it.
but the forest shall call again, in a tongue not unlike a whisper
in the dirt caked on your clothes
that will beg to be scraped and washed
to clean the slate chest and discover the treasures left behind.
((she brushes the ancient dust from the woodwork,
polished over time by the hands of time
as she unearths an inscription that reads:
“may every beloved be loved.&rdquo)

--

the waterworks are flushed out in the flesh,
as the ocean recalls me, wrestling with the night
to forever pull in and push away
the sands of time eroded from those boulders
that were once our rock foundation and the hard place
to be spread as ourselves as dust in the wind
blown free of the clouds hovering as heaven above
the rivers fed through the bloodbank,
to seep as sweat or tear ducts through our skin
pushed as paint through the frame
to ink us as now, the imprint and the first impression
pressing upon you
between sheets as the words unfold
as the slip that will remind you where to return
(and where you left
off)-
it is a mark of the matching set
-up, of which one copy only every made
to first enter the world beneath your mat
or mattress, the key given as the spare rib
to be let in or let out; the blood flows and rushes
toward you, it comes in waves to be poured in buckets
or in providence into our garden
to flourish everything beautiful lain in dirt
that has become still life, distilled in the canvas
a portrait of love that tells of a tale in a thousand words
of worth, yet priceless all the more.

--

those little messengers of light litter the dusk sky
as the tarmac that has cemented this foundation
lay before me, our own bodies peter panned out;
our souls stretched in the sun
but as uncivilized as we, slaves to our impulse
that rush once more, our oceans delivered from the heart
the valves turned taps to let the bath run
and clean the crevices in our hands that have deepened over the years
the smile lines that find no fault,
no quake that could shake them
to keep forever grounded by that which raises us-
the smokescreens are cleared to find that they were signals
without flare or flame, as we fix our own entertainment
a fire exit, an escape
the forest fire-works that become our own stars in the sky
such brilliance that could fool the naked eye
that all is daylight and clear to be seen
and made out, that such crossed lovers have been lead
by the site of their nature to their final resting place
where they may sleep in a double (flower)bed
watered to become petals that scent the trail,
exploring the geography of the one that means the world to them
each line crossed and border found again
‘til they are known
by heart.