[17 October 2019]
Stay with me a while longer. I hear
you breathe, slow, steady. Trapped in a lazy
bower of arms and wills
intertwined and enmeshed
and indistinguishable from one
another. The headlights from a
car passing through the night shine
through the window, white curtain diffusing
light glow, casting long shadows over your
brow and on your lips – a pilgrim, a silent
sojourner, a wandering priest too wise to peer in the face
of a holy. Your lips part, make room for the
grail and between them I pour
wine, red wine, running down your
throat and down your face and down
your neck and arms and hands and fingers, droplets
pooling on your fingertips and drip drip drip drip
dripping onto the white bedsheets. Stay with
me a while longer. The moon is out tonight. Full,
clean, bright. The light catches in the dark hair
on your head and the dark hair on your
face and the dark hair on the back
of your hands. Illuminates it. I breathe
in, and hear the sound of the
tide rush up against
the moss and the rocky cliffside just outside
[16 October 2019]
Don’t let me forget. Don’t let me tell
the truth slant. Don’t let me say it
was anything other than it was: a
seismic shift, a cavalcade of kinds,
a mingling of mind and
body and soul in the dawn of self-
I watch the ivy climb up the side of the brown brick house on the corner where I liked to watch the sun set. Every year, the ivy climbs up the walls. Every year, it gets beaten down by wind or weather or an over-eager property manager. Every year, it climbs back up, as fresh and alive as the year before.
Don’t laugh at me. I see you
laughing at me. It’s there
in the corner of your eyes. I
see it. Don’t tell me it’s not
there. Why are you laughing
at me? What did I do? I don’t
I heard a story once about two people who died for love. It’s probably not that uncommon of a story. Is it? What would I do for love? What would I do to be in love?
If I say it was a lie, will you learn
to forgive me? Take stock of
where you are and where I
am and where I am in relation
to you. Dusk creeps in around
and among and between us.
One and one looking to
be loved. Seeing myself
in his eyes. Hearing myself in
his voice. Finding myself in his
[15 October 2019]
A foghorn rounds out the early twilight. Low, strong,
smooth. A deepness penetrating and permeating and
carrying the lighter blues and greens and pinks and golds.
I hear your voice, smell
taste your taste lingering
on the edge of my mind, filling
the space between my
fingers with a strange, lonely
comfort. All that I didn’t see,
all that I forgot from them
till now, all that I didn’t say
building and building and building
and building till the lump in the
back of my throat is so large
I can’t remember how to swallow. I take off my
glove. My hand is cold. I feel the cold
come close and close in and settle down. I hear
the wind and the waves and the sun
weighs heavy down somewhere,
somewhere between the pier and the sky and the day’s last ship bobs on the horizon and gently falls off the side of the world’s
[14 October 2019]
But why, why do you say
that this is all there was, and
nothing more? Your hair,
your skin, your voice pull
something deep and primal out of me,
stir the waters, interlace
your fingers behind my head
and draw me in.
Ocean, tide pulling
_______________ and me towards
Moon, stooped low over
_______________ and sunsets
One day I’ll tell you what it’s like to forget, or at least to be forgotten.
Mad. Mad mixture of men. And marshwater.
You saw it, didn’t you? You saw this.
You see the future with those hard,
gentle eyes spread out
laid out in between my two palms.
I buried you. I feel you move underneath.
Sunsets over the _______________.
Shooting blanks. Fill in the blanks
with whatever seems to make the best story.
You’ve already seen me, crowned and
_______________ under the light of the
heavenly bodies swimming in the ocean
in your eyes and in the palm of your hands.
You can’t forget that easily. The way your
hand felt when you _______________ has
already permeated my skin and become a part of who I am.
Like Hyacinthus, we shed our skin, making room for something new.
Like Hyacinthus, we shed our skins.
Like Hyacinthus, we _______________.
[4 October 2019]
The whole world is contained
in the petal of a flower – so said a
voice older and wiser than mine; yet
still we push, we strive, we strain, we
stretch to peel back the curtain, to
peer behind the veil (ironically made
empty by comparison and distracted),
our loftiest aims and highest thoughts
remaining nothing more than sifted flour
or shifting sand or silent footfalls
down the old wooden stairway at dark.
[3 October 2019]
There are three states, three modes,
Three beings that look not at all related,
Yet grow forth, one from the seed of the next:
Each state offers unto the next something unquantifiable,
But essential to not only their natures,
But to the nature of that which proceeds forth from it:
Impermanence, dissatisfaction, estrangement or dislocation.
Born somewhere in their midst, hung just beneath the surface
(Something I am never quite conscious of, Yet I rely on at every point and in every moment) – A juxtaposition, woken from solipsistic sleep And etched forever on the face of a dusty hillside
Between two olive trees: a timeless moment:
I sleep, I touch your face, I sleep again.
[2 October 2019]
A craving for something
more, a hunger for beauty (consume
or be consumed), a denial of transience,
pinning down the ephemeral, a growing
restlessness, quiet through the
night, an note elongated
a moment too long (I heard
it once, long ago),
a drop in pitch, wavering,
dissonant, suspended, leading
to a change in altitude, a moment
of weakness, a moment of regret,
dissatisfied, an always
searching for that which
is never mine.
Other sketches in this series:
[1 October 2019]
the flash of light
the parting of the curtain
the pull of magnet and magnet
the push and pull of the tide
the alignment of stars and planets and circadian rhythms and other bodies
the peak behind the veil
the humanly pulse of in out in out in out
the build up
the come and go
the fade in fade out
the closing of the curtain
The first of autumn
Violet bloom in the crack in the wall
My breath clouds white and fades away
This post was reblogged at
Time’s Scythe with William Borix
[27 September 2019]
Refracting, it bends, goes
Forth, goes itself, passing
Between window pane and wine
Glass and the leaves of the aspen tree
Outside your room. It filters
White and green and yellow and gold.
It settles in the hollows, in the quiet
Places, the dewdrops at dawn. It calls
Forth their inner natures, filling them to the brim
With self that wells up from deep within and grows and moves and pours forth and overflows and spills out over line and line and line and line and line,
A holy abundance, a simple charity, a sharing
Giving that never dries up or demands,
Or lacks or wants or goes to waste.