They are a whole,
An equation of negative and positive,
An opposite-in-direction counter-flows of fluid,
A sea of invisible friction silent, wild and turgid.
The absence of one makes the presence of the other
Pointless, irrelevant, incomplete, imponderable–
A beautiful puzzle of mystery whose fitting pieces
Seemingly lost in a huge mountain of seemingly
Similar shapes and sizes scattered on the floor
Make life illogic, boring, unspeakable.
They are partners,
In crime and in bed.
They are very unlike each other,
But into each other they breathe the same air.
In the cerulean expanse of crests and troughs,
Above which rarely assemble eagles and doves,
Is written our promise echoing and un-drowned,
Making us to an enchantress’s lullaby numb.
Amidst the vast empyrean blue and cirrus white,
Upon which his opus a Michelangelo writes,
Where an amaranth grows, everlasting and eternal,
Is a tryst of trust and respect, our commitment’s find.
Beneath the greens and violets with fragrant breaths,
On the mound of earth daring brown with respect,
The witness as buffaloes plough, farmers plant and mop brows,
Lies buried the ugly past, grows our beautiful now.
There’s not much left to say, but please listen as my heart sings:
Within’s an orchestra of seraphim and bobolinks,
Their melodies fluttering their halcyon, gossamer wings,
Lulling the tempest of love into the sweetest, tranquil tears.
Have you ever slept in a room painted
In a color that makes dreaming so weird?
It was fuchsia, but now it’s baby pink.
In a poem I called it the dullest.
Every time I wake up and retire,
This boring pink smiles and smirks at me.
She knows my secrets, my colors entire,
All the dreams I dream, all the worlds I see:
The bird, the proud, the craziest shrieks,
The stains, the sticky, the messy sheets.
Time always softens the colors in our lives
To give us a clearer view of reality.
In an attempt to tire us of our folly,
Time runs very fast we’re peeling as we chase it
As though we were a wall breathing, heaving, in heat.
She is a social animal.
Party rat. Very territorial.
She likes to swing and do boogie,
In her throwback dress and with her updo she looks matronly.
She is old and dates guys ten years her junior, younger maybe,
And they are interested more with her money.
They listen to her stories, as a child to his mother
Reading to him Hansel and Gretel.
Her hands feel as though the years have had coarse stories of her to tell.
You mess her up, you mess up big time:
She has connections—
Influential, invincible, corrupt political friends.
The biggest of all misconceptions:
She is a slut, an old, spray net-stinking slut.
The truth is, she is not less than you and me.
Lusting for that fresh, raw love, she is like everybody.
We pray for that one love that waters the youth in us,
That completes our puzzles, that douses the fiery fence of our morass,
And that makes happy respiration crazy easy.
Men and women, no age-related exceptions.
We all are cougars in a sense.
Perhaps only slightly.
Feeling gauche, I choose to drift around,
To ride on the wind of hay that’s mad and loud,
To bathe in the cold silence of myself,
In the seamless embrace of the angry sun,
As the child’s voice in me lilting up and down.
I can see the others, only their hazy forms.
Everywhere on that white and blue canvas
Are the light and shade warring with blazing horns,
Drowning the waves below as if He commands,
Calming the friendly ocean’s belligerent mind.
I’m tired and morose, but still I sing and flap-dance:
There is goodness in aloneness, I realize.
I can see God from up here and feel His hands,
As I partake of His sweet, recalcitrant love,
Writing ethereal poems in the sand.
The road is long, dusty and tortuous;
It winds left and right, it rises and falls.
The birds are singing choral-like, so proud;
Their wings to the wind they blissfully flap.
Everywhere the leaves rustling like mad,
Their smell lulls the thumping of a heart in love.
But, oh boy, I see nothing of it, really,
And I can hear but the loud silence in it.
It’s all a vast dream that breathes and won’t leave me,
An image undulating, poetic, rustic,
Because I’m stuck in here, in the dullest of pink,
The sulky, spineless, feckless, hibernating me.
To be honest, I haven’t been deprived of anything.
All my life I’ve been fed, loved, understood excessively,
So much so it’s almost like a huge, wide-eyed imaginings
Of a mouse nestled in the bosom of a cat so friendly.
No, no, I haven’t denied them of my generosity,
My friends, my neighbors, my family, yes, everybody,
Who’ve shown and taught me the meaning of mercy and happy,
To smile even if life’s too far out of the ordinary,
To see beauty in and savor rotten, succulent truths,
To see humor, logic, richness, and wholeness in half-truths.
Before me’s a sumptuous platter of victuals and magic
Awaiting my devouring, but I need nothing of it.
I’m completely satisfied, and of course I’m a man of lies.
Ravenous I am so, really, and that’s the biggest of whys.