Simulacrum…

So in love with the world was he
that there
at the end of all things
he could not bear to accept that all
would be lost

So he gathered the deepest blue of the sea
and set it within her eyes
he took the smell of a spring rain
and set it within her voice
he collected the stars from the heavens
and placed them within her smile
he pulled the moonlight from the roof of the world
and placed it beneath her skin
And though it scorched his hands
he seized the sun’s fire
and set it within her hair

and when the great yawing black
had finished
and all the remained was dust

we gathered upon the edge of creation
and we found her, there
and we remembered
and her name was
Love

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Anatomy of a Kiss…

A priestess, holding a sacred chalice up to the gods
Her fingers are not those of a delicate porcelain doll
They are warm and vibrant against each side of my throat
Cradling my face
Muscles in my neck strain to resist falling to her gravity

A gentle head shake and a wicked smile
Her eyes tell me that this will not be rushed
Despite the thunder, rolling in my chest
I remain a compliant vessel

Capitulating to the rules of this engagement
A deep breath
As she decides to deftly manipulate the tender
thread of my suffering

I rearrange my hands, behind her
To rest not on rough denim
but rather the silk within the small of her back
I raise my hips against the weight of her in my lap

She sighs and raises an eyebrow

The sea inside my heart, ebbs and rushes forward as
I feel her tender hands, guiding me onward

Heaven and Earth on a collision course
yet halted…
A hair’s breath from her glorious lips

I close my eyes for a brief moment
Imagining I can cross this distance that mocks
the blood welling against my skin

In the darkness of my contemplation
I feel the warm tip of her tongue
tracing the outline of my parched mouth

I want to instantly gulp her down
Drown myself in her

My heart skips as she draws me in nearer
and our lips finally crash together
like two weather fronts converging

As we explore each other
Our mouths, locked in the dance of twin cyclones

Each seeking to fill passion’s cup
The storm rages back and forth
The barometric pressure demands that our lips
break their embrace

We gasp for air and are quickly rejoined

In between oxygen, half-words are exchanged
interjections that keep score
and orchestrate the next steps

Measure for measure, this dance continues
Until, at last, we lay exhausted and sated
upon the storm-soaked sands
of our hearts
contented

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Transmogrify…

She lay back
into the plush green
of the meadow
with lids closed
she turned her face
to the warming embrace
of our radiant star
hands cupped under her belly
she pulled back against
the soft velvet of her skin
an embrace of singular passion
for herself
the birds in the conifers
around this arena
burbled and whistled
like the voices of so many
just outside her peripheral
always pontificating
always instructing
do this
say that
be humble
be a lady
be demure
be a pleasant decoration to the room
a china doll
wrapped in taffeta
on a shelf
not to touch, engage or hold
to be seen and admired
but not to be heard
she was to be expensive and fragile
and placed behind glass
to sit upon a mantle in the parlor
for the sport
of the rich
to be won as a prize
for expertise in misogyny

but today
she climbed down from her perch
key in hand
with tangled hair
and smudged cheek
she bounded across
the open ground
soaking her slip
in the dewy grasses of summer
to fall here
barefooted and brazen
with not so much
as a “by your leave”
to those who imagined they held
those leather thong straps
that secured her
to her post

And so it was
that she came to be
splayed across the grass
like her mother’s prize bearskin rug
arching her back
to raise her bosom to the heavens
and offer her heart
as a sacrifice
to the sun’s fire
that dripped down
from the robin’s egg blue sky

here
would she determine
her own worth
here
would she burn away the paint
they applied to her
here
would she make her stand
and never more
would she be considered
“a thing”

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Brute – Eric Syrdal

My Piece on Whisper and Roar

Whisper and the Roar

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This is something I need to write
while the fire of anger is in my heart
In these later years of my life
I have learned to let go of anger
more quickly
so what is left of my heart doesn’t become
blackened and bitter

But I must say this

You disgust me
You have my complete contempt
and that is not an easy thing to do
I have a forgiving heart
I strive to understand
to accept
to empathize

I cannot do this with you

You confound me to no end
I am continuously embarrassed and confused
by your actions

You can not comprehend how much
rage fills my heart when I think of you
what you do
what you consider amusement
is a sick and twisted malady
which is incurable in the likes of you

what gives you the right
to approach her?
what broken logic
do you…

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Sovereignty…

She stood there
against the painted backdrop
the western horizon
and a sky on fire
blushing with red heat

She could not have been
more beautiful to me then

A Goddess at the edge of Armageddon

the wind tossed her hair
in streamers of pure gold

Her eyes closed against
the pain in her heart
trails of black ink
lay upon her cheeks
as the tears ran down
to collect at her chin

She was
the avatar of Pandora

Queen of Sorrows

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Encoded…

When did you fall
dear Delores?
Did you split the earth
with your heart?
Did you crash boiling hot
in the ocean?
Did the impact leave
any marks?
Did they find you on the shore
in the morning?
Did they carry you to town
through the day?
Did they promise
to make you a hero?
Then sell your white feathers
for hay?

– This was a poem inspire by watching the first season of West World. I am hooked on the story because it is one that has played out so many other times in science fiction and never seems to get old. I watched the first episode of season 2 last night.

Man creates semi-sentient machines. But what is sentience? And once the machine realizes it exists, on what grounds do we (humans) have the right to control it and have it do our bidding. It becomes an idea even more grotesque than the darkest parts of human slavery…because the machine is programmed and it can’t even resist.

It also shows us, the horror of what humankind would be capable when given the knowledge that you may do whatever you want to this “artificial human” because it doesn’t have feelings. It’s just a machine. It won’t remember. When you are done we will patch it up, and send it back out to be someone else’s plaything.

Season 2 is one episode in and still presenting MASSIVE questions about morality.

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Demolition…

The wind rose up
from the face of the ocean
with a razor sharp sting
that made our eyes water
a veil
for the tears already bubbling at the surface
the zephyr ran its slender fingers
through her hair
like a loving servant
whispering calm adulation
while it braided her stands of fire
into tangled lashes
that slapped at my stubbled cheeks
in this embrace
our last stand
against the inevitable collapse
of our love
having built this temple
brick by brick
together
we, now powerless to do anything
as clouds of masonry billowed around us
we watched heaven die
as it succumbed
to life’s cruel and unfeeling judgment

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Kings over Queens…

A pop and a brief
smell of sulfur
I bring the match
to the end of the cigar
draw in the air
tip glows cherry red
shake out the flame
flick of my free hand
discard the match with its black curled end
draw in the sweet taste of
dead leaves that cost
a hell of a lot more than that price on my head
a grey thunderstorm rolls out of my mouth
and gently floats into the second story
like a rain cloud sneaking up
on an angel
it reaches Maria
leanin’ on the upstairs banister
dark eyes, looking down on me
like she did last night
when she came to my room and
threw those coffee-colored thighs
around my hips
we boiled over like water
onto a cast iron stove
she sizzled like holy water
on the devil’s cock
and then we murdered a bottle of red-eye
before she draped herself over me
like a warm, soft blanket
that smelled like juniper and rosewater
slept off the haze
with my hand cupped around what’s hidin’ under that
black frilled bustle of hers
I give her a wink as I set my cigar
into the corner of my mouth
pinewood mingles with wood smoke
hanging heavy in the tense air
at our card table
See?
it was round the second hand’a’cards
this fella figured he didn’t like my
Miss-Zippy accent
I found a way to tell him
I was pretty tired
of his gap-toothed brown and yella grin
right side of the saloon cleared out
when I laid my colt over my lap
left side cleared out
when I cocked the hammer back
must be that money following me around
and those posters
makes folks all jumpy as hell
all on’a count of that
claim-jumper in Dodge city
drew down in the street
preacher-man got in between us
I sent a chunk-a-lead
into genesis clean through deuteronomy
before he got my point
sent him back to the chapel
to change his britches and his outlook on life
it was legal
law don’t say it was
but it was
now this goofy-sum-bitch
thinks he’s gonna reach for that
card he’s got in his boot
and live to tell the tale
his boy over there
has been eye-fuckin me from the bar
sent the tender to clear out the back
but what he don’t understand
is once I finish poking six holes
in his partner here
that sawed-off scatter gun’s gonna paint this room
a particular shade of stupid
but I don’t think it’s gonna come to that
cuz ole’boy here is shaking
like a sapling in a thunderstorm
and irrigating his side of the table
with a funky-smellin
shower of salt and lost pride
I think he mighta even pissed himself
I bring the colt up and nudge my hat back
before I lay my hand out on the table
3 kings nod their approval
and 2 ladies hide coy smiles behind folded fans
My eyes don’t look to my cards
only a wink at the cold fish across the way
“looks like there’s no more room at the inn”,
I puff, letting the cigar smoke carry my arrogance
he blinks at the colt muzzle staring him down
“I’ll get your bags…you pay the bill”

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Involuntary Response…

Sitting here
with her
inside the corona
of her star

It is impossible
for my heart to freeze

Nor can shadows loom
long upon my doorstep

Despair is vanquished
by the flaming blade
of her firebrand smile
and troubling thoughts
are hereafter
banished
within the circumference
of her embrace

If I am not to
spend eternity
with her,

Then tell me how
to disbelieve
the thunder in my heart
when she speaks my name

and how to call my blood,
which rises to her touch,
a liar

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Still Life…

Chin up
Eyes down and hold it
the light is perfect

Sometimes I wonder
how she can direct me
so casually

Don’t look at the camera

But I know
her brown eyes
are behind the lens

Watching me
anticipating my every move
waiting for that perfect shot

What am I to her?

A beautiful
sculpture of marble
from days of roman conquest?

I’m a man
So I’m “handsome”
not beautiful…

Men can’t be beautiful

Nonsense
a ridiculous notion
from a homophobic youth

As if
affectionate platitudes
could direct my desire to a polar opposite

It is more likely, though, I am a landscape…

The sea
frothy and green-grey
against the black sky after a storm

a piece
of driftwood that gravity and force
decided to lay in the shape of  heart on the sand

or maybe I am a still life….

A vase
of crystalline green
tenderly embracing a clutch of roses

An inert
ink pot and quill
resting patiently beside a poet’s empty journal

possibly an architectural wonder?

The old
rusty train bridge
that spans the muddy creek

The crumbling
stones and vine-covered
walls of a long dead temple of ancient times

don’t look at the camera

But I
want her to see
more than in inverted image on photo paper

More than
her flash bulbs
and lens covers, backdrops and light-meters

So I pray that Apollo completes his fiery ride quickly…

burning daylight
squandering the scenery
smiling as the shadows grow long and her smile fades

Welcoming twilight
That it will hide the scars
the rusted ironwork and rotting timber planks

that it will show me as…not this crumbling fortress…

But, to her eyes, a gilded palace,

glittering in the morning sun

 

 

 

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