metaphors and omnivores





I see the horizon of a breaking dawn and the setting is drawn
toward the sky-light an endless canopy of opportunities by a chance encounter
with a distant soul-mate kindred spirits of twilight re-awakened
I was wandering the desert along a february sky when we met
i drowned in the oasis of your eyes
bathing in your iridescent sigh
and i climbed up mountains to get a better view
of your color depth and hue
making my world a beautiful palette of you




it's my fault
bide your time inside my mind
mucking around my darker side
hiding in the deepest corners
and making a break for it
when I turn my back.
How many lies can I rack up
and how many lines can I cut?
There's one for the money
two for the show
and the blue ones leading nowhere
are the toughest to break apart...
I keep wanting to go back there
I want to restart this game
to see if the mistakes you made
you would make again
I want to send you everything
but nothing's good enough for now
Unable to muster good intentions
unable to wish you well
because the crime against my skin
was the one I brought on myself
there is always more to the story

I tried to jump outside of myself
found, next to me
another me
just standing there
wide-eyed and mute
tongue cut out
playing with yarn
cat's cradle wrath
wrapping itself
tightly
cutting off circulation
her only lines of communication
save the pain in her eyes
moving
juxtaposition inside her mind
of what to do next
disregard the syntax
it's too difficult to fix
and too easy to criticize

you're so transparent
I tried to rip my eyes out

I tried to bite my tongue

but all the words came tumbling out like so many instruments of evil...

I saw your 'good intentions' and the sincerity taper away

as the distance of your solitude became too far to travel

calling from the line you drew between your parted lips

I fought to keep you pacified until I let myself understand

your imagery is a ghost story and your touch is phantom pain

I finally set you free by seeing your scrim of doubt



slamander father
he wrote as if it were his idea
and not that of my godfather -
if times were different - no -
if times were the same - and -
circumstances different
it might be fact instead
of the dreams of poet child.
He is of the age/or/would be
of the age
had he not deemed it appropriate.
to expire
Therefore -
he would be of the age for me
to be of this age
to have been
fathered/created/molded
in his image!
His fractured/tilting/
lizard-like imagination
Rather than reincarnation of present day -
run/take the chance of being
INcarnation(?)
a new flower
from same seed
or
same flower reblooming
after winter sparking
extinguished
but the other?
that other who claimed his words?
reminds me of no consequence
ordistinction

LOOK!!
LOOK!
what lies opposite
page 75
signed and numbered variety
first edition!
and I gobble the words
with anxious anticipation
child-like Christmas morning?
lines of Allah?
empty cups?
because the lizard finished
only moments ago
and his song -
while pretty
is also disturbing
and my illustrated companion -
uplifting and artistique
that which lies in white
opposite page 75
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