Danza de la Muerte

Lemon soufflé and rose water pooling on décolleté decadence…. Slippery fingertips on the edge of my hungry skin I swear you feel like new life. Raindrops grazing barren grass blade Sunshine at midnight... You are promise unfulfilled. Lies whispering in unanimity with psalm Butterflies tiptoeing over searing embers… Disdain drenched love notes, listless freedom songs. My hands are callusing, and cruse empty. There is nothing so perverse as Pieces of perfection, beauty diluted, or promises forgotten.

I fell in love with you
Before the rain came.
Before I could extend my fingertips over cliff’s end...
But you never showed.

Round My Hometown

This morning
Despair overshadowed promise…
Fear engulfed lucidity
And my covers were the scattered remnants of
Midnight anarchy and indecision
I sat
Legs languorously lethargic
And prayed
For there were only
Vapid images of a meaningless now,
Silence
And the arbitrary hum from a fatigued cooling system
And then it came to me
Like wind rushing down nostrils
More rapidly than lung’s capacity
I remembered my kneecaps
Board stiff and dehydrated right before
Shoes splattered face first into a shallow pile of bark
And exhausted grass blades
Eyes smiled shut
And wrists wrapped loosely around tattered twine
Roaring belly laughs from 5 feet post take off
The taste of chili and sweet water cornbread, fireside
Love with no fine print
This morning…
I realized
The beauty of memories
And the revelry trouncing amid monotony

The wonder of this world...

Mourning Bird

You are a destructive melody.
Broken and torn, sewn and bleeding.
I pray for your pieces…and always picture you whole.

You are disaster.
Hurricane slapping summer rain and rainbow’s tip toes.
Sunburned beauty and seaweed rubble between bleeding toes
Salty air and open sores…

You are my evensong.
And reminder of all things beautiful
If you must fall,
I pray you shatter over familiar knee cap and into au fait bosom,
Not cliff rock and lifeless consequence.
I’ve watched you dive once,
And pray your next finds you floating face up, not down.

Don’t promise you’ll stay…just don’t go far.

You are the blood of me
The harvest of my dreams
There’s nowhere I can find peace
And the silence won’t cease

Nothing quite how it seems
The ghost of my joy
Won’t let me be

If you set me free I will not run
I will not run
I will not run

Breyanna

Pinched legs and braided pig tails
carefree and barefoot.
She runs in rambling patterns of wonderment.
He watches from a dirt dusted, rain stained porch front
…smiling at her progression, feasting on her revery.
Her foot patterings on the back of earth's troubled sod soothed his soul quick like sugar cubes melt in calescent tea chalice.
New life pulsing after storm song,
sweet kiss after sorrow.
She is beauty in bloom;
babe wrapped in flower petal.
Purity in suspension,
her smile echoed hope, offered salvation.

Sweet Home, Lebanon

They fight in wars
like gold fish not acclimated for sea water.
Their eyes burn like sulfur through a honey comb
and all they can think about is the lakefront home they left behind 4 months ago.
"This is nothing how I imagined war would be..." he whispered,
as smoke from a blood tinged cigarette seeped through his lips...
And its ashes fell on his finger tips like brimstone from the pits of an abyss hell nightmares of.
They will sleep and dream as humans do.
And awaken to find an empty crib, and sheets splattered with blood in the pattern of broken promises made to Choctaw chiefs.
They will pray for mercy.
It will land on steel sewn ears and an acid washed tongue of a merciless tyrant of their own making.
This is the result of their indiscretion.
Their judgment will not be swift nor short enduring
It will sear the fingertips of their loins
And gunshot seeking safe refuge will nestle between their pores
Just in time for Passover.
Is your vengeance satisfied?
Or is the blood spewing from your neck just a smoke screen of rose colored tear gas and a taste of strawberry Fanta for the locals?
There’s nothing like the smell of perdition rotting in the back of a convoy on a mission for Allah and Jesus.

Destiny

It came from direction of moss eroded and abeyant railroad tracks.
Carried their bodies like wind pierced chiffon on the under belly of porpoise wings in mid air stream.
He spoke of love in the hidden places and she reminded him of the beauty laying wait ‘neath ashes and ammonia washed truths.
His features were proverbial...and his breath, commonplace.
Ginger coated pretzels and heart shaped balloons
Crept through nightmares at daybreak...
Humming to the off beat drum of broken records
and moonlight and star dust kissing
And you...
You were in the midst of this.
Covered in eggplant colored velvet and shades of blue
Dipped in honey crescent shards of melon and emerald light/
Re-birth came in the form of destruction and lies, washed in sandy salt crystals and spring water.
Strawberry sugar baby
Flying at full speed on a golden litmus paper air plane from hell’s grip
Perusing down the street with a smile of redemption on his face,
A cat under his collar and a cigarette butt dangling from his lower lip...
He passed her on a crowded warren without words
Only scrunched brows and passing glances at a deliberate stranger.

The Magic Flute and the Neem Tree

She was perched underneath golden billows of curry and mosambi
And in mid-day dream
When she was walloped across the nape of her neck by sunset’s backhanded grapefruit fury
To the backdrop of fire flies lazily flickering as if on lunch break.
This is when the melody of bluegrass undertones hiding behind lambs skin and indecision brought life to her being by way of perdition.
It came on horseback and at an inconvenient time, as all things of this nature should.
He said his name was Sorrow.
And though his face was kind, and his eyes familiar,
She dare not remind him
Of their encounter many moons ago.
His name was Water then,
And she knew he wouldn’t remember.
She smiled...and studied the new contours of his face
For now she must love even his fallow parts.
His fingers were calloused and indigo now,
And
He wore burlap and satin
Worn shoes
And had a golden flute hanging from his left rear pocket that was
Dangling on crackling Neem leaves with healing and poison lodged ‘neath their bloodline
Lying on formaldehyde soaked grass blades.
He rested his peeling hands upon them
And piped a requiem for his anguish
As he played, she swayed like a windstorm catching the spirit
...watched him melt, kissed his neck.
Relished in this moment
And contrary to history's chorus
Sorrow dissipated at sunset...
The same way he came in;
On horseback and at an inconvenient time, as all things of this nature should...

Breakfast in Baghdad

Bearded moss nestling blood bursting tics steered the wind to where bombs waft gently toward kitchen tables and lemonade stands.
"End this war!" she screamed.
...limbs extended, fingers clinching door frame.
Warm tears found cold mausoleum in burning sand and pits of rage and corpses of familiar ones.
There were only two moments that day.
The others fled faster than remembrance...
And she stood in their crux,
Somewhere between pulchritude and death,
Labored breaths and a foul taste in her mouth.
The sky was poised and porous
Pink like baby brow post meltdown.
“Gasp”
“Gasp”
“Sigh”
“Cough”
“Scream”
Repeat.
She reminds herself to breathe...attempts to forget.
Tries to remember his laugh and smile and if the Kahi she was making was ready yet...
Tries to drown out this image, this now...
This? No.
Hopes never re-live...
This moment...
Prays that she will soon be awakening to sweaty sheets and the gratitude of a nightmare’s illusion...
The sky was too vivid, the smell too pungent...
She knew better.
His body was stiff and his blood was syrupy
It gripped her skin as if in a desperate panic...an attempt to adhere to life’s spark, her warmth.
There was nothing.
There...was everything.
He was everything.
There was nothing...

West Bank Beauty

Our paths crossed in Bethlehem.
His face was sand struck...
...torso a little loftier than sunrise in mid-step.
He waved.
I smiled at him…
His eyes were peculiar and oozed a pale green medicated salve as they swayed with indecision.
I mouthed an oath of discretion
And nestled my breath ‘tween his pain etched into tulle fabric turned burnt sugar crisp and anguish...
He entrusted his pieces to the clasp of my fingertips.
I expelled psalms through his bones
And prayed for their destined direction.
He is Aria.
A melody and a requiem...
...Windstorm and silence, Dead Sea breath and beauty.
Golden filament dangling from priestly robes, dancing atop fig leaves anointed with jojoba and olive oil...
He shattered and smeared an amethyst bottle filled with frankincense that dripped from his fingertips like war paint onto my face and torso.
His hair smelt of Honeysuckle and summer rain...
Rose water and pucker fruit melodies
Tickling cheek rim with tongue songs and notes of ylang-ylang and sandalwood...
He blessed my vessel.
Sent his fingers spiriting through my hair follicles like bareback horses scurry on a Sunday.
Roasted almonds
Sun seared salmon and coconut milk.
His lips were outlined by sunlight and his brow concealed his passion and secrets...
I was swayed by camel back on a detour to Damascus...
Craved tomorrow while pleading for a lingering present...
Scarf mid back and windblown...
Gourd filled with syrupy water from a distant well...
I knew him...I met him
He was beautiful.

Nature Boy

Noonday sweat drips down pant leg, weaves through leg hair
And ricochets off the back of soil soaked boot strap, belly flopping on prairie and passion...
Clinched and calloused palms cradle a wooden plow with rhythm and rouge, raw fingerprints.
Well water sweetness dangles from the corners of mouth perched and parched.
Borrowed time and blistered heels,
Deep breaths and twenty dirty nail beds.
He is the apple of sunshine’s fury and the melody in her ogle.
Sweet corn
Green and golden billows...
The wind causes clouds to explode into whales and spaceships,
Puppies and Thor, dragons, elephants, and the face of God...
He inhales crystal air and the sweet clarity found in silence and surrender.
Sun tea satisfaction and
Watching a grasshopper munch warm dew crusted blades tickle his hillside fancy.
Folded hands and a comfortable distance from confusion and bustle...
Honey baked Sunday afternoons and an unbridled horse trotting to wind songs
Lull him to sleep as the sun stumbles underneath the horizon.

inspired by our wonderful trip to NYC.

Mermaid Exodus

She is blind and bare.
Stands on road brim and begs for breadcrumbs
Journeys through self acceptance and denunciation
Clinched handbags and locked windows pray that mercy whispers in her direction...
She is calamine lotion on the back of irritation
Her name is Remnant and Forgotten.
She is the result of persuasion and rejection.
Love and loss...
Deep sea diving
Kissin’ sea urchin on underwater mountain tops…
Holding breath on the exhale…
She descends to new heights
And hums lullabies to babies on the inside of shark bellies
She is woman and mother
And cold, and shaking
She is the back breaking pressure lurking behind salt water shadows and silence
Purges sunshine and breath on land dwellers…
Darkness for the steel at heart.
She gasps
And grasps at something like sanity...
His name is James she thinks.
She is mutiny in a blender, soaked bed sheets and sweaty creases…
Tonight is only fuel for her grand escape...
Tomorrow will be for rent...
And the day after that is only thought of with the hope that
Sea parting doesn’t take that long.

Yellow Satisfaction

He pushed a rusted and squeaky buggy filled with burden and broken dreams salvaged from a burn victims unit...
Was standing 'neath rain bursts and hovering above pitter pattering on plastic bag coverings...
She saw him through red light clamor and early morning impatience...
He was dwelling amidst noise and placidity.
A folded paper clipped bag of barbeque potato chips dangled from his back pocket making awkward and staccato rumblings in sync and discord with loose thread on tattered jean pockets and an ailing shirt hem.
His steps were restless and stoically uncalculated.
Breath, lax and lazy
Pupils pierced through passing vehicles and dared its occupants to question his humanness...
His brow broke raindrop’s fall.
Danced around frayed shoelaces and broken bottles.
He swore never to become weary or fragmented...Even though the inside of his cheeks kissed
And ribcage coiled and clung to vertebra.
For all he knew, this could be heaven...wrapped in cellophane and last week’s molded bread covering dry turkey breast and a mustard dollop.
He reveled in rainstorm
And found satiety through her green light smile.

Pearl

"There is a woman in Somalia scraping for pearls by the roadside.
There is a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
That is how she lives her life
She is dying to survive
I don’t know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave"

She walks with bare feet over ruptured glass bottles and promises made and broken in haste.
Her face is wilted and her children are remnants and reminders that she is...if not only once upon a time a woman of purpose and worth.
Nail beds cradle last week’s sediment and sense of sanity.
She whispers secrets to Heaven in desperation.
Presses tear streaked cheek bone against sunshine and eardrum to treetop murmurings...
Prays for mercy and reprieve from suffering and sleepless nights...
Through perched eyelids, windstorms and moonshine at midnight
God finally sends his reply...
She listens with urgency and monarch butterfly wing filled growling stomach lining...
Hopes his answer is intoxicated with phantasms of her
Fate
Or destiny
Or breadcrumbs leading to bed sheets
Cloaked with lavender pillow sprays and soy candle wax...
Or something familiar
He whispers:
"You are the result of irritation with purpose
Black-lipped oyster peril and warm water persuasion...
Prototype purity wielded perfection is you."
Her bent burnt brown sugar back is both safe house and shelter
Blind men make jest of her backside exposed to pavement...
Brow beaten and beauty
She is resilience and rarity molded like the contours of eternity.

"There is a woman in Somalia scraping for pearls by the roadside.
There is a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
That is how she lives her life
She is dying to survive
I don’t know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave"

his touch forces ocean brim to kiss mountain peak

Spiderman and Folded Dreams

He came to her dirty shoelaces and unraveling binder and book hinges.
She wore a side pony tail with loose curls, fly-a ways and a lifeless and tilting black ribbon with seared edges for preservation...
Sweet red remnants of repose and lunchtime on shirt collar brims…
Reminded me of the beauty those like her mother had ‘neath the souls of their feet...kissing concrete for clarity and reverberation...
She hid her smile with thumb nestled and resting between cheek and teeth.
Folded loose leaf like love letters
And wrote words of affirmation.
It was a Wednesday.
He played...she spoke with clarity.
I was rapacious
Their courage, freedom, gaiety, and dreams
Cradled satiety downstream,
Drifting atop banana split boats
Guitar body turned bongo when "momma said knock you out!"
They ate cookies stolen from giants...
And sang of invaded red planets in gibberish.
They existed...
Bare and bold like new life amidst chaos.

Beautiful Boy

Based on a true story...

Cheap liquor and backwash trickle through red clay and dry rotted pine...
They remembered him as Brother...
Attempted to fashion solace from his clammy skin, caked makeup, glued eyelids and absence...By piecing faded memories to an indissoluble and faulty contract with a pseudo and fickle sense of loyalty...
This is the result of limestone and acid adulterating;
A mixture of fractured skulls and folded phalanges in a cushioned catacomb...
He was young and silly.
Broke promises and called it a cruel world
Dipped fingertips in confectioner’s sugar coated sockets
And inhaled passion, stolen from cellophane and tin foil pie plates...
He was accosted by dilated pupils, a cold sweat;
Froth fizzing from chapped lips and uninvited solitude at moonlight’s execution.
His coiled fingertips mimicked blue skies tiptoeing over lucid waters
Breaths turned into whispers
Turned into silence...
Thoughts of pleasant pastimes
Morphed into and distant and frigid memories of the way his hair smelled and his love for anime.

Red Schwinn

They are love on an incline
Going full throttle on a 10-speed.
She sits
Limbs wrapped around waist
And chin resting on shoulder blade.
"You are the cure and the reason" she whispers…
He brought dysfunction to her turmoil and cessation to her afflictions.
They stagger on the edge of disappointment and rebirth...
Float like kite tails propelled by breaths breaking free from a bubble's clinch.
Inspired by dizzy rubber orbs bidding warm pavement adieu,
The wind forms crescendos composed of caprioling gravel and a jealous roadside as it waves goodbye with dusty phalanges tugging at their pant legs...
The wind instigates the strands of her hair to tickle her face
She holds him close...
They coast through midnight and mediocre Monday mornings
Backsides sore, thighs asleep and throbbing
In hopes of kissing the sun while their fingertips caress a mountain peak...

Daddy's Girl

He left when she was very young and still in love with the thought of life.
Tear drops pooled at the base of her chin like kamikaze snow flakes fighting for the spot nearest the sun on an inverted mountain peak.
The gravity of his void
Filled her with acid rain and maggots
He vanished like kidnapped sunshine being held hostage abaft steel clouds.
This midnight found her ill prepared
And with empty oil cruse…
She sat on the edge of a urine soaked pallet
Limbs languid
Her home had been reduced to mere soot and embers kindled by expulsion and embitterment
Passerby’s threw down nickels in passing
And she attempted to rebuild the familiar
With broken promises and half truths
Woven together with bent needle tips and 23 threads
None of which were binding.

Felicity

Her backbone was written in cursive
And her limbs swayed like a pendulum interrupted.
When the corners of her mouth turned upward like felicity, her hands folded over her cane and her face tilted towards heaven so she could make eye contact with her babies.
She was Beauty. A testament to the winds existence...
A dainty blouse rested loosely on her weary shoulders
Skin wept and her stature was collapsing as if it were becoming re-acquainted with the soil of a familiar pasture.
Her countenance spoke of purification through persecution
Hands were full and her breaths were labored...
She was headed home.
And I wished her safe passage in passing...