I don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is whom I obey.

hands are underrated

mine punch through lines

of poetry like lime

cuts through the margarita

you use to burn time

hands are underrated

they punch through walls

you later said you laughed

in his face for doing that

I wonder how it feels

to be on the receiving end

of that kind of anger

hands are underrated

they tap on keyboards

that will share

our darkest secrets

sometimes I let them

slip through my fingers

I grew up to paradise by the dashboard light learning two out of three ain't bad at a time when I was giving my love to the wolves with the red roses. Those lyrics were my life. That sweating manic impossible energy also mine. I burned through four cassettes of it in my car singing as loud as I could with the windows down racing down gravel roads letting the world eat me dust.

Later in life, I would do anything for love knowing that objects in the rear view mirror appear closer, my wasted youth, because I didn't go into the frying pan to the fire just tip toed around lief's edges without leaping in. Now I know good girls go to heaven but bad girls go everywhere else.

The rhythm of a life, my life, many lives never to be forgotten especially not the words. Such poetry delivery in tsunamis of life-sucking passion that left a man larger than life panting on the floor covered in lace to sink spent into years of illness and depression.

I lived all that too, this time with a CD. Looking for love. The real thing. Asking, pleading. Can you make me some magic with your own two hands, can you build an emerald city with these grains of sand. More importantly...can you give me something I can take home?

I knew for sure you could hose me down with holy water it I got too hot...and too after a while you'd forget everything...a brief interlude, a midsummer's night fling....and you'll see that it's time to move on. I never did that. Never moved on from that music, those lyrics, that delicious frenzy. I never will. I won't do that.

Now, so many years have passed and yet I find myself wandering down the ancient stairway, taking the steps only one at a time, following my just my heart beat now, I'm at the room at the top. The end of the line. I used this music just like a bandage, for my body a wide open wound, I can hear it raising up in my back brain now...

She hears the calls of the blackened crows lurking in dark shadows under broken street lamps gouging at carrion of the recently perished.

Carriages, made of pumpkin footmen, changing to mice of men, to rags of riches, Cinderella sags in spells of magic dead, back in chains she will go, with jester's lies from hell's flow...

Her glass slipper shatters in the taste of wine to caress her ruby red lips that would be devine, stalking the night alone

she screams like a banshee lost out on the moors, where doors of castles chambers stay closed tight as the damned crows take flight.

I want to sit with you in silence no matter how long it takes for you to feel a little bit more like yourself, to be comfortable in telling me what is hurting you. Allow me to hold your soft hands, walking together until your feet become waters of the sea, wading through your emotions.

I am the hurt, the lost, the loved and the unloved, the empathy and the weary. I want to be your rain when you want to dance, I want to be your paper and pen when you want to write - because I know the feelings of being misunderstood and left behind.

I imagine that

if I touched it

it would be softer

than the smoothest silk

or velvet

I have ever known

and if it touched

my cheek

it would be

more gentle

than a warm breeze

or the sun’s rays

caressing my cheek.

I imagine that

if I held it in my own

it would be softer

than a newborn’s foot

and sweeter than

a first kiss.

I steal covetous glances

and imagine

caresses that

will never be

and I feel the

forlorn absence of

something

I will never know.

I imagine that

if I pressed it

to my heart

you would feel

my thoughts

and laugh

or run.

she danced

hand-shadows

on the ceiling

cracks became electricity sparkling from her fingertips, where

nails flashed shadow-dark

and fingers joined and separated again

the angles made everything different, one moment

a wrinkled crone hand

grasping at the next

moment's delicate

masterpiece

in the shadows of her hands, she held

everything

white knuckles, whitecaps, waves breaking

mood rings unwavering blue, useless

staring at the sea for the possibility of a feeling

blue: only, always

fistful of gum wrappers, haikus like spearmint suicide notes

unpainted fingernails

atlantic gales peel the fish scales from her hands

blood a tragic blue, blood like ink

elegies in the creases of her palms

wake invitations in the eddies of her fingertips

even the tide laments

stanzas buried in the soft sands of amnesia

a wordless blue tombstone, a sad song