Magic Love

Love, one magic number counts four letters of chance and change, positive to negative on your life line a test handed in and then passed and rearranged.

Love, a perfect prism’s reign of color – incarnadine and rosy – lies like a white rabbit’s eyes they follow you. Upstairs, a curtain’s drawn open to a magician who hides up inside his sleeve dark tricks though at first sight you still watch him closely.

Love, lives in a magic city. A filthy town, where you arrived this afternoon, driving deserted sand hill lined roads, the landscape finally yields to billboards on which you read that in the suburbs no ones home or even sleeping.

Love curls like a lazy house cat. Striped and fat it’s mind wanders to windows sleepy and teased by birds and other moving targets.

Love runs faster than a sports car. Shining, topless, windy hair whips your at your cheek – it wasn’t meant to breakdown when you need the ride the most and leaving you in solitude its engine sounds like goodbye.

Love sails with you upon a magic carpet from far away it stops and awakens you from silken dreams. Burgundy and bubbly flows through you and turns your inside out from smiles to screams of pain.

Love, the story playing in a cool dark theater. The wife died at the end the husband writes, couldn’t it be me not her? Then he wipes his eyes and instead with deep regret, throws out his pen and just asks why?

Look at me

#keepitalive #poetry

I’m in the stacks high as a half floor of the classics held between the pages and wands and cups. Looking deeper your eyes burn holes with the investment of tonight or a lifetime.

Emma or Juliet or Madam Bovary protect the faces prettier than hers in the quadrant always mowed in rows – cut grass rusted between the notes.

Spiraling and bound there’s no word for the sound a girl makes when all the nexts and fortunes and eventides behold a barely audible thing. Listen to it boil from my throat.

Women fainting in the humid doorless rooms inadequately chaired. Sit there behind Heathcliff and expose those white thighs to Flaubert and smell those Madeline-scented clavicles, songs wafted up from hot pipes. B sharp A minor chord comes to warn us all to keep our distance.

That very day I left the mold blooms and heard the copilots speech, balloons began rising ever so slowly. I learnt that heat rises and a cold sinks like a feeling of mediocrity.

Not the virgin she’s reborn a little girl. Not a diving bell. Not an oven door to a living hell. Not the clamber of a piano on the short seashore with the conch shells and their perverse Fibonacci shapes sequencing his final thought.

She’s guarding my life with the covers of a book forgotten, in return naughty but respectfully right, on the shelf – so you reach her cheek in your dreams.

Fingers part my lines, as the stuff of your words open my mouth like a cannon. A Captain, a whale, and the man whose name you’d never know sat between us.

You still call him Ishmael. We all find out what his name means as one of the dead. That very second we pull ourselves out of this fictional life.

I died to finally read the last sentence, the words no one knows.

Flattening the curve of the earth, weakened at the knees, her neck craned around to notice he’d gone.

Pleased to return Dentistry in Suburban Phuket, forevermore out of print, it once ran cyan, magenta, yellow, and black.

Printed on my imagination the greatest achievement of self discovery.

I thought you’d finally agonize for me.

Stay Home Made

#read-poetry #poetry

Bubbling from the glass lake
Street lights buzz in
Our window. “It looks straight,”
Hanging there like a mirror.
Within it a reflection of
This house. Home light floods
Down the hall, a tsunami

Rushes in
The bedroom doorway
Taking up all the air.
Waves high enough to
Spill out our windows.

It’s dark enough to get bitten
By spiders. Dark enough
To nap into a room filled
With empty dishes displayed
And waiting for the kill.
But not hungry enough
To eat your heart out instead
To feast on your fears.
Swallow from the saliva
Once induced by just a
Single picture of it.

Just the word alone
Or the thought of pineapple
So strong that it burned
My cheeks, tingled, drips off
My tongue like hot sauce
On a summer day
A salty sweet day.

The dream I had of sleep
A dream of a dream
Laying closely and
Near everybody, touching.
I am The Road the yellow lines
Where a motorcycle’s rust
Lost it’s grip and slipped
From inside the Gas tank.
Without food
Even metal feasts like a meal.
Yet in one great
And momentous breath I
Inhaled taste and scent
I found umami
You and I sweet and
Tasted oddly like love.

When did you ask
For your liberation
From desire?
Tear off the disguise
Worn in the war
Against want
To never suffer, or
Lose freedom from
Ordinary things you
Waste instead of own?
Owing a debt, none the
Less: gratitude
Becomes a feast for one.

Questioning resolves
A thirsty soul’s spy for
Who’s the master?
Are there even any
Leftover brave saints?
And everything at once –
Can you conceive of it all?