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Deny Me to the Moon

  
An exile of his own skin, he dances around himself

like a forgotten memory, webby-silk and opalesque.

Missing at the core he is, out and outwardly leaning,

seeking last letter spaces, the crossword’s final clue,

bluntly obvious solutions, words clearly spelled out,

none save himself a riddle, yet unanswered to mind.

Self-realized men confess, embrace inherited power,

weakness staring truths, scorched in skin worn open.

Banned men envision, only scoff-turned accusations,

toss blocked revelation, obstructing responsible claim

in twisted other-outerness, blaming all not one source

he who self-circles doubt, brandishing blind knife ego

’til none know his name, only echoes like tinnitis ears,

trace stirrings in songs, a residue of teflon-tinged taste

on tongues never spoken, refusal in face of god’s moon.      

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Cave

 
 

My cave surrounds me wherever I go, shrouding my aura in darkness, oft-colored midnight, even then rich cabernet red and other so charcoal and dirt, depending where the eyes.
 
A child’s pinched lips and piercing wail at a dropped candy in a sweet shop, an obsessive loss and raging irreconcilable remedy no time will heal, deflects from the walls of my helmet.
 
But inside this dank hollow lie dusty old book traces by the scores with yellowed leaves of lingering tales in smidgeons of dribs and drabs hooked on peek-ish memory bites and
 
Tasty morsels of cookbook glossy tongue shots gleaming moist bread puddings, fired sugar crisp tops of creme brulet fine firm fork poked and 77 chicken crockpot recipes.
 
Flickering in the black are 35 millimeter reels spinning snowy memories cast in 60’s vintage plastic coating like clear crunchy couch covers that thigh-stick on humid summer days.
 
My cave halos me in shadows, protects me from seeing too crisply, feeling too widely and stepping too recklessly from coral blue wave-walls framing family, clutter, oranges and Picasso.
 
Within I carry the cavernous dim where the entryway light blazes shimmer on passersby or then again, maybe yet, the innumerably shot clear through rays shine outside in. 

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My Dating Site

credit: thememeguy.com

Espresso shots, Open tables, a shoulder-slunked mind in a cafe quips:
Sighed out on Dating sites with their Show me yours I’ll show you mine. 

Only I don’t want to play that Gut exhausting, Happy sapping game.
The one of Cliché’d glass cases with a mime Silently howling inside. 

The trick is this, I’m told: Be direct or be alluring, No in between.
Play the sex card or go fish, for All else covers as time wasting. 

So practically practical this world, A missing blessing, A cursory look.
Human exploration dead, Gone the way of humanities–disrespect. 

The machine pumps all now, Post people-ism, Peddling wares of wear,
Faces incomplete, Bodies disembodied, Intentions at Cross sections. 

Arms hugging an example, a harried voice, wincing thought, clarifies
That which makes him/her/it/us/them truly tick, Gather up and hallelujah.

Just once, Wanting to reply a brutal truth-biting of words honestly pled:
Not wanting to down you, Respondent, Just that friends don’t do friends. 

Can you Be a being, like me, like you? Exist with me just for a while?
Feel the feeling of feeling? In a combinatory presence, Can we just walk? 

See how the air circulates, By and between us flaring Scent and Sound.
The air does. See? In the gaps of words, We speak, While we walk 

In sensorial immemorial blind sight of touch-less touch–My dating site. 

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Camping Inside Out

 
The world as colors and shapes, moving forms

a distance, silent mouths forming wordlessness

a seat at the window safely piggy backs society

the vitrine protection dividing in from out unreal

keeping clicks where they belong, in finger flight

and pad ticks, far away from the tongue stealers 

those who would en-web you in their sale spells.
 

Where I finger thrum on wood thin counter tops,

jittering quick shot the espresso electrical shorts

and spy on the unconscious pacing and dodging

the bots with electronic ears in elephantine slog

they drift and separate, crawl inside their spaces

cocooned til the spring of their dawning moment

the one where memory reaches the track’s end.
 

Those mouth dropping shock seconds of where-?

When did the wall of puzzle pieces appear and

how long ago did the trash can cut music notes

while the airbus busied itself as a kids’ toy store?

The pajama’d trees passed me by while I sped

past birch beads encircling a neck slip into brew

dipped in twenty true coffee grains indissoluble.
 

No matter for the mindless masses none notice

but for their double exposure, shadows on glass

juxtaposed on a manicured verdure hip and free.

Brown on black, olive on pale, face to facing skin

empty gestures mock and mime the cruel illusion,

one that paints them imperfectly distinctive matter.

This art breathes no reason splayed and kneeling.