"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"
She wrapped me in her quilted smile
then torched the salty fabric of us,
tear stained and aching.
She knees cruel in the balls.
And I love her that way just the same.
She hangs me up to dry,
then cuts me down for air.
The breathing windows of us,
pulsating walls setting chairs rocking,
us inside, lulled in four-arm sleep.
The components of being build essences of the all told, acted, sung and noted.
They shake out doings done and yet to come like San Andreas’ fault, not a fault.
Did we quake? My shoulders shuddered like a surge, a heart murmur or eruption.
No, the inner mechanics of rebellion taking a stand on all things ingest just arose.
When the ear throbbing starts, I know I’m lost to it, going into floated notice din.
My heartbeat declares so loudly inside my ears in its under water muffle-areum.
I doubt creation’s pen then, my mouth moving silently, my hands ripping at keys.
Keyboard fingers fly like the cocaine toad hopping brain’s clicking away at strings.
There’s this word association that bleeds writing, a lapse, slide gurgle into them:
Strung words, the meaning of which is not revealed until they mix and sit together.
They settle in a rhythm and slur, brushed water tinted smears blotting tilted space.
Poetry and being entwine thus: letter, scene, wish, guess all overlaid in blindness.
Squeezed juice, the nothing of matter becomes me-you, and we polish air’s shine.
Awakening prompts a glancing checklist:
Same place as last consciousness–
Darkness or light–
Feel my bones collect, my eyes adjust–
First blink: lids dragged over gravel or oil?
First move: any pinches, aches or strains?
On my feet, the day’s first inhale,
a wet finger to the wind.
Last night the pings of paranoia
called through the curtained phone
closed down for good–for the night,
disturbed the blank peace of erasure,
electric muted screams of digging rebuke
nagging disappointment and broken rules
known only to those who hide them.
Ping: You don’t know…
Ping: You don’t have…
Ping: You are not…
Ping: You …
The device pinged and dinged,
begging me to bury sound deep in darkness.
And I did.
The morning checked in misaligned,
a misstep of hungover, awed silence.
Roaming the days hunkered inside me,
downward dream-filled head of cotton
clear cuts paths of fallen dead trees;
upright sight, moving back like Mercury,
the illuminating specks piercing a miasma
best trailed in side-step unresolved truth,
prick the skin like sand in a wind storm
abrading hope-possible of reconciliation.
Sitting in the center of a dream
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Every day is a climb to a troubled peak
ever in sight, never in reach.
It hovers nearly above my height
and follows my journey just in half sight,
a hand’s distance to grasp with miles to go,
luring my feet on though ascension is slow
to illusory destination and a doomed flight.
In a dream I spilled my coffee and you dabbed the drops dry
then kept me in the sanctuary of sunny walls of the canyon.
You surrounded the silence inside and out of the darkness,
sheltered me from the unknown and unseen threats
spewing from my head and the encroaching sentence.
Though a vision, the cocooned comfort of clean warmth
saturated my skin and soothed the silhouettes of scenes
I played in the air which demonized and tormented me.
The silken offerings of shelter and savory songs, teeming time
and release, held me suspended in secure freedom and relief.
Even as you encased me, swept me from danger a while,
ensuring ever peace and never entry either, none for me
who pierced your persona, the mask that sailed through days
without a hitch, I was not there, nor were you for all we said
for all we did, the lapse of waves on the ocean front of the inn.
I sat on a porch in the vineyards with you sipping wine and sage
in that illusion as we drifted through somnambulant skies of amber
portraying the iconic lovers of notes, words, cells and seasons.
Culling the seeds of our silvery days we played Tristan and Isolde
and all about us applauded the proposal, the performance of us.
But awakening in the half lit room of slatted rays of golden dust
I feel your shadow lingering hidden deep like rusty pipes
in the foundation of this house, shambled upright and tall.
The image creeps about the corners of my eyes, tingles sight,
but I stretch open the passage of the day with true flesh and mind.
In the gaze of the other 
