The thought of too much sun
is enough to dry my inelegant
years down to a red soil.
For in that heated world where
you fidget within your own
heart's laager, listening to the lonely
squatting syllables of a war dance,
there is no seasoning to the
feast in your mind's migrations.

The necessary travel that you undertake
as a benevolent foreigner to serve the
benighted "us" is a pilgrimage around
your own small camp fire.

Her voice was a honeysuckle wind.

I remember the immediate addiction,
knowing how short our time might be,
but when we woke, we were old,
she said "Good morning"
and I felt the fresh smell of spring.

the worst feeling is knowing what the poem is about.
when you are watching it unravel, just to be relayed in a swirl of pixels
the room seems a little darker
a good, long sleep sounds a little nicer
wait for it all to pass and then wake up years later,
just to see that nothing has changed.
see the hope is,
when you sleep -
or rather just close your eyes for a second -
it's not really happening.
it is not as bad as it seems.

dark nay drawn blank
thick as the ice against a bank
i remember colors heavy and droll
and that wind light with cirrus like
winters collar neath a hood
soft stoll
decoratorhipship
decorum factum

while a river of purpose
spreads like a stain
on the ancient stretch
an open world
seeping translucent
speed
a happiness
indifference

you and i were
once upon
its time

a scene of a crime
collusion
like a starburst
blare