The Lost Boy
Her absolute
inability to keep
her hands
to herself;
that, he reflected,
marked the moment:
the sudden death
of his affection.
Now his hands
are everyone’s—
and no one’s.
He absolutely
embodies
her indiscretions;
wounding in fashion,
matching with precision
the patterns
of his scars.
This is his un-doing:
his choosing to remain
the lost boy.
The Adventurer
I am your adventurer,
eager to explore
the hot springs,
cool creeks, and
windswept fields
of your skin.
Dips and ridges
of your ribs
become my guide;
peaks and valleys
of your spine—
my wilderness.
At the pools
of your lips,
I am nourished
and refreshed.
I am your adventurer
shaped to mark
causes and
their affects.
With my head
on your heartbeat
and my fingers
along your neck,
I trace a path, and
see to my work.
The Lonely Harvest
We are
walking wounds,
seeping sores of
loss and
lamentation.
A swollen
sickly people
plowing into
one another
tearing at
the soil,
uprooting,
spreading seed,
for a slippery
second,
a breath…
of relief.
We bury
turmoil
in bodies.
Perpetually
planting
an incessant
harvest of
loneliness…
that madness,
of the sad.
We are
walking wounds
covered
crown to boot
in battle armor.
Fighting for life—
to the death.
A warring tribe
clashing bodies, yet
terrified
to touch
a soul.
Deep Divers
Diving deep
into hyperbole,
mouths
string words
into phrases,
tongues
embellish
with emphasis
and pause.
We call this
connection.
Diving deep
into beds;
flesh upon flesh,
muscles flex
and stretch
into motion.
We call this
connection.
We are out of—
and so far from—
depth.
These are
the shallows;
the tip
of ego,
the surface
of lies.
Scratch as we try,
our nails only go
skin
deep.
This is not
connection.
God Maker
memory
intertwined
with fantasy,
so
entirely,
so
intricately,
that lines
blurred,
and colors
bled.
out of this
tangled
tapestry
men
were lost
and
gods
emerged.
The Buffet
She left a bitter taste;
a tongue stained
in disappointment.
Now he only dines
at the buffet;
filling his plate
with hot flesh,
meaty cuts,
lean legs,
oiled skin.
Spoonfuls of red,
or brunette,
on the side.
Dips his fingers
into chocolate,
white cakes,
strawberry pie.
Thickens his heart,
feeds his eyes, yet
disregards the hunger.
For nothing here fills.
Nothing sustains.
Jigsaw
the walls you build
fail to conceal
the sweetness of your soul.
A sideways spirit
with haunted eyes
besieged by Almost Forevers
and Firelight Lovers.
Strings of paper doll darlings
one size fits all
won’t pale the horrors
fill the hunger
or patch together
your shattered heart
winter was fierce
so lets spend summer
patiently picking through
the scattered colors
starting at the corners
tracing the borders
piecing together
our puzzled hearts.
To Tame a Predator
Love him-
like an exotic animal.
Respect his power;
Keep him well fed.
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