Another hat to wear.

IMG_4034I dance with the molecules surrounding me.

As  vibrations from the speakers toss my insides

into a tingle.

I take it with ease until she enters…

I take it up a notch to the surface of reality

that must exist for lovers to not itch

like squirrels.

I take myself out of the lush grass

to the land of tight muscles,

tight jaws creaking into the night.

So tight

I loose my form.

I take on the shape of another and I ask why.

Why?

Why, when it was me the whole time?

The one with the power

to change at the drop of a hat.

To find another

hat to wear.

Take myself for granted no longer.

Lets dance.

You and I.

You are me,

I take you in my arms,

ultimate lover.

The one who has sold me on the story.

The one that has sold me on the relating of nothing

to everyone who relates to nothing.

Why did the stars form we know not.

It matters not.

Knowing the answer can do nothing but free the soul from questioning.

Yet questioning is what we hunger for.

It is the ultimate desire.

We crave

not knowing.

It is why we are empty when we figure

or believe we have figured

something out.

We need the unknown in order to feel alive.

In order to not die with addiction.

Addiction forming when the brain is bored in knowing.

The surrounding humans unable to handle

such awesomeness that can escape from one dream.

Unable to handle it enough to

dream for themselves.

Let it let it let it be.

Say it

one

two

three

times in repetitive forms of what but of course,

nothing.

Everything is nothing and nothing is in all things.

All created equal.

For all things are made out of the nothing of everything. . . I soak.

Dance with me,

me.

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Always wanting more than she can handle.

Photo on 2012-12-11 at 18.10 #2

Take it in happy like wine

Take it in the form of her parted lips

She deserves this.

The kiss…

The kiss that will end all other kisses.

The kiss that makes her swivel her hips and take a whiff

warm breath

exhaled by lover .

Left with no doubt of meaning.

Lusting,

Wanting…

good for you.

Getting,

Holding…

better for you.

So take.

Take the words given in the ache of a midnight

Take the information I give you.

Open her insides.

She waits. . .

she needs. . .

hair tangled hands to head to heat.

Meet and greet taking form of

warm body

holding down flesh of lover

taste of tongue savored.

Craving, real.

Passion, met.

Take these words in your mind and give her your lusting.

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Remember, there’s a time lag of half a second from when you perceive something to when you become conscious of it…There is no choice but to live in constant catch up.

Remember

remember the Poet,

loosed lipped and easy at the hip

her taste buds are still forming

her mind still wondering if the goose bump will drench your skin

the skin you love.

Her give

your

tug.

Remember the timing of what was right

right before the fight came storming.

the stars missing the gaze of

your eyes watching out as they passed her by.

Remember the HEY that the horse ate

and the tan lines of laugh lines

now torn tears from good bye.

hold tight and ache why, ask why, be why

Remember why not…

Remember the wander of the wonder

how words came about from ink of swivel

now the flick of the tip just the tip tip tip

of hand

that caries meanings she herself

would never dare to dream of knowing she dreamed of.

Remember that day when the sun lifted the spirit

and your dress while you danced.

the poet birthing

herself

and dancing

to the gods created before the gods,

created after, and the ones no longer needed…

Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

The decomposing of me.

Crisp moon at my feet, reflect to me my truest nature.

Lie to me not, for you know no such thing as ego.

Tell me, let go.

“Let go.”

 Tell me…

Arriving at the green blades edge, my spine straightened by the freeze of the mountain water.

I fall into cold.

                                           .

                                                              .

                                                                                                           fall into feeling…

Memories once shoved into the cozy corner of the forgotten, are now jolted from their slumber.

Rushing the front of my brain like daggers shot from a booby-trapped tomb. Piercing the core of my denial.

Moods flooding, the murky reflections of meant to be.

The smell cringing in bubbles exiting my mouth.

Let me feel the burn of it.

Let me drift to the bottom, toes touching upon mud

Allow the fish to eat my eyes first.

No longer needing to see.

The pain they have witnessed, not just of myself, is enough to ache for the tinge of the first nibble.

The decomposing of me.

Hold death, let me feel the weight of water filled lungs, mouth gaping, deceived by the assumption of oxygen’s availability to me at all times.

Let me feel the disappointment.

Let the childhood stories, beginning with sledding and ending in crumpled panties and lost innocence, tag along with my last scream.

Allow me the release of knowing I am food.

Not driven with purpose yet fulfilling THE purpose…to feed what I have eaten.

No permission needed,

All are welcome to the piece.

Whispered Flaws

I write to you in my sleep.

Diamond sky, stardust lining ALL skins.

The waters touch quenching ANY thirst here or after.

The desert crumbling beneath toes dipped in valley.

You are there.

Visioned.

Seen.

Falling from risen.

True in being nothing.

Giving everything a meaningless meaning of seeing.

The dreams, like clouds, we dance upon their vapor.

Whispered flaws yelled from clasped claws…

Sleepily you write to me also…

Agreed upon pronunciation.

She believes the human lives for the story.

The story of who they were, who they are, who they want to be and who doubted them as they still believed in well, the story of . . . them. . . of her…of you.

She ponders wishing on stars in the definition of  labels.

 Believing in grimacing and taking on the TIME as hers.

Thinking  she was given IT, time, to invest in her  life.

She sees now that you are the giving of nothing.

Nothing beyond the limits set before you, by others and the little they believed of themselves.

Which was fed by others who believed  even less in themselves…and so on…

So.

She questions.

Questioning who she thought she was, who she thinks she is.

Questioning the dream created during a time of escape and survival.

Questioning even, the agreement of  ink in relaying speech.

Agreed upon  pronunciation.

Questioning, for even speech, same as God and Jesus and lack there of, was birthed by humans.

Created and passed on for the purpose of , what else but,  a STORY.