A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
On a dust plain, you see heat rise, distort dry fauna fading green. Bones ache, but your blooms distract, help me heal in precious, amber light. In porch shade we rock, glide side by side in silence all these years. A moment arrives so perfect, I kiss you, passionately, again, feel the cicadas unrest and tremor. We could strip to salt flesh I long to devour. You stand to refill our lemonade. My hand brushes the tender underside of your boot cut denim. Not long is dinner, sunset in Sedona. We will afford the loss of sunrise. Cayenne canyon of soaring rock fences us willingly within. No taste for dinner but soft cotton. Aroma of sandalwood encircles cooling limbs entwined. I feel beating beneath breathing and hold the tender core like a baby. Thankful, all these years absorbing color of sunrises and the view across a shared room. You could be a memory, constant in dreams, my soul’s red canyon. "The Tender Core (Sedona)" War Of Youth When he scooped you from the earth, carried you to the speeding car that brought you down to the gulch where dutiful bees stung the small flesh, he realized war again — nothing like he ever fought but was prepared for. meanwhile, I obsessively plucked petals from white daisies, blissful, unaware how brutal life could be until rubber complained to the hot blacktop — when I heard his true love in wails echo above stubborn birch, pine and hardwood that every aware animal could witness. at seven, I believed he loved a small, bloody boy more, whimpering in clover with the yellow and black, and fractured leg to set. glowing white angels would bathe and tend contusions and abrasions, cheer a freckled chin. in my designated corner, a toy for distraction did not deter wonder — if I hurt myself, would he love me more? "A War Of Youth " Prose and Dead Men Tiger-striped flannel and matching ball cap, if slid askew, would remind you of the old man sitting on the tailgate of his blue Ford, sheltered amid flocked customers and other vegetable growers. Cracking wise in the corner parking lot of the local farmer’s market, his hat true, angled in the locked position. A habit I suppose from serving in military. Big John missed death as a sentry in Guam by just one hour, relieved of post before another throat slit, some nameless brother in arms. A story you were not privy until a man. I scribble these musings in secret journals -- hollow words spun from a corner booth for hours at mic’ed readings where no one peruses the printed commitments amid pregnant pauses. My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked, with tears in my eyes not for him but some liberal heart bleeding, pleading actualize the purpose of my prose. "Invalid Entry" |