The Senses of Dream

Thoughts awaken as eyes close and 

night stirs daydreams in minds.

Fiction reminds of truth that resides in the

fragrances of memory.

Jasmine. Chlorine. Sweat.

The smell of an image like a word

almost remembered just at the edge of

complete, waiting to become.

Young flesh moves indistinct like

rapidly flipping pages that are vaguely

familiar; the mind’s eye squinting to bring it into focus.

The visions blurred, finding their history, become distinct.

The images tingle the tongue, the

taste of these moments  readying the 

belly to digest the weight of past realities.

Gastric juices churn in the mind.

Whispers and laughter, muffled and dampened, echo

through the caverns of petrified memories ,wandering 

like wind far from their origin of faceless mouths. 

Skin, lips, hair are stroked by the chilled

breeze of phantom breaths that vanish

with the waking of senses.

A Perfect Snow

The snow fell at a perfect pace with a perfect density.

I could follow the listless, melancholic path of each

individual snowflake to the ground. Each flake, robust but

humble, floated with composed purpose, received by a

white yielding ground with soft repose.

There seemed to be clarity and organization

to this gentle snowfall. I don’t suspect it will last, but I will

study it with fervent attention until it dissipates into a still

grey air or rages into

a confusion of white tumult.

Almost

Thoughts awaken as eyes close and
night stirs daydreams in minds.
Fiction reminds of truth that resides in the
fragrances of memory.
Jasmine. Chlorine. Sweat.
The smell of an image like a word
almost remembered just at the edge of
complete, waiting to become.

Young flesh moves indistinct like
rapidly flipping pages that are vaguely
familiar; the mind’s eye squinting to bring it into focus.
The visions blurred, finding their history, become distinct.

The images tingle the tongue, the
taste of these moments readying the
belly to digest the weight of past realities.
Gastric juices churn in the mind.

Whispers and laughter, muffled and dampened, echo
through the caverns of petrified memories ,wandering
like wind far from their origin of faceless mouths.

Skin, lips, hair are stroked by the chilled
breeze of phantom breaths that vanish
with the waking of senses.

Beautiful

Beautiful inner.
Beautiful around her.
Beautiful all the days that pass beside her.

Beautiful is the air she breathes.
Beautiful the youth she seeds.
Beautiful in how she gives, how she sacrifices, how she pleases.

Beautiful skin against mine.
Beautiful skin against time.
Beautiful skin against breath, tongue, lips, skin, imperfectly aligned.

Beautiful the couch we share made for one.
Beautiful is the waking when sleep is done.
Beautiful my eyes opening to hers, before first light, before first bird song is sung.

Beautiful strength that binds life together.
Beautiful tears that shift my weather.
Beautiful like the days last gasp before it fades into heather.

Beautiful love of every child breath.
Beautiful to every soul in debt.
Beautiful in every moment, minute, passing, in every heart beating toward death.

Beautiful gentle presence.
Beautiful evocative fragrance.
Beautiful like moon-shadows that remind night that light is never absent.

Beautiful together.
Beautiful remember.
Beautiful today, tomorrow and all the days to come after.

Beautiful cuddly.
Beautiful hugs me.
Beautiful hands wrapped in mine, warm silk, touching smoothly.

Beautiful my history in her eyes.

Beautiful our history in her heart.

Beautiful beauty, beautiful time,
Beautiful happy that lives in every breath, every touch, every heart beating chime.

Summer Thoughts

I love to saturate myself in the
melancholy of the winter still,
glancing through the dark at
the frozen moon.

My summer thoughts attempt
to melt away the icy branch
the moon is perched upon,
but instead, dissolve into the
numbess this cold has become.

The Fix

I find that at the immediate moment after
masturbation,
I am isolate.
All connections to my heart are severed,
ridding me of passion, love and spontaneity.
I am a man of pure logic dictated by rationale.
I may be perceived then as brutally cold and apathetic for
Nothing can affect me. My life is no longer an experience,
but an event attended by an indifferent observer,
uninvolved and distant.
My mind is cleansed, embraced by reason,
perspective and control restored.
I am no longer docile to faith or impulse,
but to sense and practicality.
The death of the Romantic gives rise to the
Realist.
My emotions numbed, my mind acute.
Life, its purposes, its goals,
is distinctly clear, clouded no more.
The effect is fading.
I think I will go and masturbate again.

Night Walkers

Sometimes I see them in the afternoon, sometimes,

though their time is the night.

They slice the afternoon with a scent too sweet for others,
stumbling through stagnant air with directionless determination.

It is startling to see them in the daylight.

Their time is the night.

We are safe in sleep while they roam the dreaming hours.
They dream only of dreams. Hiding away, lurking in
alleys hidden from our minds. Places left alone.
They stay there so as not to affront us. We have standards.

How considerate of them to keep a distance, though never far enough.
It should be no problem though.

Their time is the night.