there were few, because of the limb,

went over over so there were three;

lesser becoming with vague traces,

paper with thin lines

framed the equilibrium

inky stains on paper that no events could bleed

forthwith a delightful stain

smaller animal years, tender

little claws and velvet emotions

your becomes thyself within

within becomes thyself yours

strings funnel restless

everytime let things stand

overly paper thin lines

overtly smaller animal years

overstrings restless

taking a measure of

ll things being equal

it comes and stays

a cyclic rememberance of

half tangled wet

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no words

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no words

If we kiss

If we kiss, it is clothed kissing alone, after the sheets. It can be deep and energetic or the faintest brushstroke barely tracing canvas. The hands certainly express and write their language all over the friend, but they do not insinuate themselves between fabric and body. And we part because we have lives, homes, books to read and family to attend. Actually, the parting is a relief, for there is the clear frame of desire that has no need for anything other than that amicability and deep, deep trust. We have a secret.

scared to call you

I regret not having the sense to know how much it hurt you to reject. I reject the notion that I could not have been otherwise. Otherwise is a country with closed borders. A second chance is only ever a new chance, living within memory. It is only through one thing that I perceive (an)other.

An elbow bent at a blue angle. A wine-coloured sea change. A gifter of second chances. The re-do that is an act of forgiveness. Smiling a second time, refreshing the other person with emotional colour. Blue violet smell of dew and sweat. Cat strokes.

Memory of you is a talisman. That’s why I am scared to contact you.

why did I become limerent

why did I become limerent

when did the focus shift to/from/to/from myself

how did these bones become limerence shifted, ghostly white outlines?

ink traces pain akin to my body’s covering all show what you made me do to me

you influence

sear matter, something reminds me of it!  some memories are hurt but not

because of them themselves

more the current white tracings on my limerent limbs contrast with ink

push more, into, why became..!  it was alright, like the memory of inkness

bad education should become good education  not visa-versa

the girls and guys take their time  for when the memories become unbearable

there is musics – almost all have been felt before

i live the colours, dab and brush me watercolours oils and acrylic

add texture

contribute me, i am becoming art

yes, what happened between us,

is art

Questions for my friends

Questions for my friends:

Do you know how beautiful you are?

Do you know that you literally saved my life?

What does your face look like when you just wake up?

Have you ever sat down in the shower and cried?

Have you ever gone to sleep, and woken up, weeping?

Which smells of your body do you like the most?

Have you ever felt drawn to a rigid religion for the feeling of legitimacy it might give you?

Have you ever had a sexual thought about me?

Does the feeling of thankfulness in your life outweigh the feeling of apologetic “sorry”?

Name three beautiful words you’ve said out loud when all alone.

Do you like to press your palms to your eyes and see the emerging patterns?

Have you ever thought something inappropriate?

Tell me about a time you were accidentally racist.

Tell me about a time you were purposefully racist.

Tell me about your kindness.

I love you.

If you could give everyone in the world just one (same) hand-held object, what would it be?

If you could give everyone in the world just one (same) talent, what would it be?

Would you still like me if I were fat?

Anorexic?

Republican?

Libertarian?

More confident?

Who (all) would you like by your side on your deathbed?

What information would you like me never to tell you?

Why are you so judgemental?

What if everyone judged you as harshly as you judged everyone?

Would you think less of me if I enjoyed [shallow pop musician] deeply?

Why don’t you call me more?

Can you forgive me?

Slippery Sam, docks off and cold
went tracing, dungarees abounding, slave
to his wet briefs, seemingly sense sold –
encountering leaf and sea, an ocean wave
horriplating rocks and the dusty yellow smell
as in liquid splurtings or pollination save
that in all likelihood, realizing his clueless spell
moiled foam all over his face, white trouble
leaky spit careless and dripping shell,
a severe denial of his heart – its ceaseless rubble.

I frowned as I looked at slippery Sam how red
were both my lips and his, the smoky emerging lust
that shivers the foundations of the soul, an inky thread
singing vibrating between he and I, the neck’s forward thrust
and automatic jabs. Sam and I had long been together,
nearly always clasping, eternally clasping
standing and reeling in arms prognosticating weather
and before we realized- had both died- our tricky fasting.

I confess a reluctance to process the matter
Indigestion results from chewing bad food
verbiage might help empty these thoughts;
I see myself of many years ago:
I could not have imagined a better ally then,
Confidences and the worries of a young child
she made me her everything
and herself everything to me
soothed the frightful afterimages of bullies
and arranged for my incipient naiveté
children believe those they trust
told of enemies in sight
how my father Fent contrived to hurt
an unstable queen with her brood
now I have grown and cast off the trappings of juvenility
and she still yearns for simplicity; those years of shared time with son
conspiring against a father who knew only his family was distant
(know father I have grown and have always loved you)
she has fallen into a vast and simple nostalgia:
one who arranges for dependence upon a simple child
–the child is now grown, with vision in both eyes
such a desperate one
finds satisfaction only in harsh gestures
beating at the riverbed till the water becomes cloudy
must she obstruct her own clarity
though infinite peace beckons
trials should force one to become strong
how mighty the human soul!
how strange and brutal the need to suffer!
it is her wont
and I find it easier to stay true and cultivate new plants
Not lashed to the masts of a ship blowing towards self destruction
I hope she alters course
but I, with my wife Kal
find a beautiful openness with each other
I stand on two feet, sea-legs strengthened
by salt and grime
Father whole and in my life at this juncture
and how I express thanks to your humanism!