Prayer...

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God of right and wrong and fair

He said, 'and look upon this
sudden interest,
who is this girl, this muse,
this temptress?'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'God, are you there?'

He said, 'O what a thing to do,
to sit in such a cozy seat,
and wonder where your chair's gone to!'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'What does death compose?'

He said, ' a morbid thought I do suppose,
but a tangled guilt a bloody rose,
The cheerful and ignorant,
Death, say I, is not for those...'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'well and what of war?'

He said, ' come now my child,
the world's a bore, you have your sports,
I have my war, what you think
war's too mild?'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, ' well and what of love?'

He said, ' love is you,
you, my love, I give to them,
I dub thee man, but call thee friend.'



(I sat alone in prayer

'God,' I asked, will I be okay?'

He shook his ball and said,
'ask again another day,')

Like the girl that I saw on the side of the road...

Like the girl that I saw on the side of the road

she lay face down with her arm tucked under herself
she had on blue jeans and one small sock
she wore white sneakers
though they lay fifty yards from her feet

she had strawberry-brown hair, if there is such a thing
she wore a rubber-white Remember bracelet

she had on a t-shirt, nothing fancy
just a t-shirt
just jeans
just sneakers
just plain white ankle socks

she lay face down with her arm tucked under herself

she danced beautifully
she had a voice of honey
and an even sweeter laugh

she cooked wonderfully
she had a face of Spring
and an even fresher smile

when she smiled her cheeks blushed every time
I used to just watch the red
rush to and wash from her face
Just sit and smirk and watch
the red rush to her cheeks
as they raised swiftly
her eyes wrinkle
her dimples catching the light
inside their weaved basket of beauty

Just sit and smirk and watch
the red fade back into freckles
her nostrils flare with new air
her eyes glowing with new warmth
like a fire with fresh breath

It's strange how little she looked
like the girl that I saw on the side of the road...

Today I found myself...

Today I found myself
thinking very little

Just laughing
Just talking
Just filling a space in my mind
that was common but unique
Just having an experience
that was not manufactured to me,
that had no ticket price
Nor shipping cost.

A life that was my own,
but shared greatly with others

A house that was my home,
but had no fences to be mended

A grave that was my bones,
but had no grieving flowers

A book that was my Tome,
but was only dedication

A path that I did once roam,
but was not the first (nor last) to do so

I only remember her eyes...

I only remember her eyes...

and even then
I could not tell you
what color they were

I only remember her eyes
two glowing ellipses of bright
I remember nothing of her

just her eyes
as they didn't stare
did not glance
but simply looked into mine

the subtle shiver as she slid into my soul

I only remember her eyes
and how the corners curled
upwards like what would be a frown
if they were not a smile

No recollection of lips
or the blush in her cheeks
No remembrance of skin
or the count of her freckles

her smile is lost in my mind
somewhere, hiding in a back corner,
of which I am sure I have many

others are filled
with her name,
her hair color and style,
her, I'm sure, button nose,
with nostrils the perfect shape
though I don't know
what that would be

I only remember her eyes
and yet I wonder
how much she remembers of me

That moment before (Infidelity)...

That moment before
lips touch lips

The gentle pause and
satisfactory hesitation

Anticipation cannot describe

That moment before
hips brush hips

The self-aware and
tangible sensation

Rationalization cannot decide

That moment before
hands brush hair

The cold shiver and
acute vibration

Inhibition cannot abide

That moment when
give meets take

The blind mind and
godly manifestation

Contrition cannot subside

That moment...

She reminds me of no one...

She reminds me of no one...

no one I've seen
nor spoken with
nor glanced over
in an ad page of
some frivolous magazine

No one I've read about
whether fictional
or historical
whether legend
or myth
whether god
or mortal

No one I've imagined
no day dream
no nightmare
no long lost love

No one I've ever known
nor will know
in this life
or next

No novel
film
nor text
has ever had
the likes of her

She reminds me of no one...
but everyone reminds me of her

These restless and warm nights...

These restless and warm nights
are some of the best I've ever had.

I do admit I much prefer
the reason to be a woman,
laying softly beside me,
the moment to sweetly sexy
to end.

Those restless and warm nights
are nice in their own way.

The feeling of rolling over
and kissing her pale cotton skin.
Waking her just enough for love.
Causing her back to lift from the sheets,
sliding a tingling dying arm
beneath it, supporting her pleasure
with strong and taut grip
that actually gives no pressure.
To kiss her weakened yet full lips...

But these restless and warm nights
of writing and drinking and smoking
and laughing at my own poor thoughts
are nearly as good.

These nights of knowing that
I could stay here forever,
in limbo betwixt moon and morn.
But knowing that I will,
not soon, but before long
lay my head down,
as that is all that is
required of sleep these days.

These nights of walking from room to room,
of noticing the little things
that only tired intoxication does bring.

These nights of shuffling through old notes,
and photographs, and records.
Of recounting the past ten years
of one's life, and speculating
on the next four or so,
as I really don't care to look
too far into the future
for fear of boredom setting in
before it's scheduled time.

These nights of simply sitting and smirking
at nothing.
Like an inside joke that even I don't understand.
It seems like an epiphany,
it seems so near enlightenment,
my eyes grow weak
from the flame of Truth
and purest passion
and my eyelids fall reluctantly
under the weight of the world
as it moves from my shoulders
into the stars

What were his last thoughts...

What were his last thoughts
as he pressed the steel to his temple.

What were his last thoughts
as everything suddenly seemed so simple.

What were his last thoughts
as he wiped away a tart tear.

What were his last thoughts
as he shuddered off his final fear.

What were his last thoughts
as he remembered past poets lain dead.

What were his last thoughts
as he bit a pale lip until it bled.

What were his last thoughts
as he smiled shyly in ripe relief.

What were his last thoughts
as he gulped away his growing grief.

What were his last thoughts
as he held a bronze bullet to the yellow light.

What were his last thoughts
on that cold Colorado night.

I trickle down your cheek...

I trickle down your cheek like a tear.
First in the wrinkles of your eyes,
made not from anger or confusion,
but from laughter and solution.
I magnify each freckle,
but I stop and take my time,
laying quite simple,
in that cute dark curve
that is your dimple.


I cool the red-rose cheeks
of your embarrassment.
Until I fall from your chin,
not stuck up but held high still.

But now I lie on the table top
or the paper page of a sad novel
that you hated reading,
but still felt guilty when you finished,
hoping you could turn at least
one more page, one more insight,
one more seemingly-understanding-statement
from an author you've never met,
nor heard of, but somehow relate to.

I seep into its yellow paper
weakening its reserve, but
strengthening yours.

Or perhaps I am hugged
into some sweater's sleeve
that you are wearing.
You wipe me away in shame,
I do not feel offended, I assure you,
I would have done the same,
if I was alone.
But I am cozy inside this argyle stitch,
that comfortable cotton
without scratch or itch.
That cookie warm feeling
of being home.

I go out alone...

I go out alone, for a cup of coffee.
To break up my day at home,
but also to hear fresh the ambiance of the day.
The city street lends a new tone,
a composition of cacophony,
not unfounded in the window of my small apartment,
but different enough from the idle chatter
that leaks through the clear pane
and too long heard turns to silence.

But here in a busy coffee house,
maybe even a bistro, I gander,
the onomatopoeia is too trite to write,
almost too clear to hear.
But I do enjoy the clapping
 of the rain on the door frame.
And the flapping of the candle
by which I write, it seems
to cut between two worlds,
desperately pulling between them.

The hot hiss of an espresso machine
reminds me faintly of home,
in a frigid winter spent fondly
in and out of the house in equal measure.
The cognitive images drain through
my mind like the memories
of a vivid dream
immediately upon waking,
or the frightful water
sheltering away after a shower
into that hole that most assuredly
journeys through the earth,
to the ocean,
whatever that is.