Sense able

my nose my
mouth
2 of my
senses
are going to move
down
towards the puff
of your
curly cue
warmly
pressed by
new
laundry

beyond the avocado
turned opened

your heart
will be revealed
spinning
inside a cavity
its
own world ready to escape
and describe itself
to my 2 senses
holding back
the touch which is already
happening
as
your hands
clasp
mine
and finally our ears
are opened
together
listening to each other

floating in a
hot tub from Mars

as other planets
look down
and the stars die
just so we can see them shoot
across
and say goodbye to
the
night sky.

glass in the sand

he pours sand over her
to remove stones
from her
heart

the beach doesn’t end
where the cliff
begins
instead it wraps
around to where the world
fears the lack
of a safety
net

and there the couple lay

for arguements sake
they do
not
argue

but she won’t let him
hold her
to warm
her

and he won’t take ‘no’
for the answer
despite her
arguing
diplomatically
to argue
she
isn’t arguing

nor yelling.

this this where
the argument
begins –

the lack
of
respect for
her
wishes

or so she says but doesn’t argue.

so he compromises
explaining
without
touching
claiming he can still warm
her
wet body
by sprinkling sand
over her
as
she lays belly down on
the beach

as her
body dries
she will bake the sand
and quietly
he hopes

her heart will

melt.

morning tan

perfection window
white
wicker chair slid over
sun bathed morning
coffee/toast background
silk
covering laced
white
over white
wicker
white wooden frame
painted around
glass

Final Bullet

is this how i will lay there in death
allergic to my own bones?
stretched long with hands crossed
a penned smile for a pinned sleep?

i prefer to think
beyond my bones
outside my mind when
synamptic pathways cease
that a conciseness resounds
beyond the reasoning of simple science
will break through

when there is nothing lying at the foot of the stone
there is still me
something more free than what i knew
or understand now

i am reaching out to build something in life
that exists beyond heritage
which is not locked up in a treasure chest
or worse
held as it was at the beginning

and when i go
what i created in material life
will be more than i(t) was and outside of me
to be released.

Is there something more
Than what lies under ground
Or is turned to ash and scattered?
I believe so…

something beyond the doctors bed
or the devils bullet
crashed metal
or sleep of final night……

TRUMPET

he stole Clark’s trumpet
and then he stole
Clark’s trumpet

radio too

he progressed past
and then
passed the sound of –

– so

it was no
longer stolen
and never was

only physically

from a hotel room
sleeping in the New
York
rain hoping Paris
could kill
him
before the right woman
learned how

Clark Terry: Clark Virgil Terry Jr.was an American swing and bebop trumpeter, a pioneer of the flugelhorn in jazz, composer, educator, and NEA Jazz Masters inductee. Terry’s career in jazz spanned more than 70 years,Terry also mentored many musicians including Miles Davis.

Miles Davis Regarding the theft of Clark Terry’s Trumpet: https://www.cinchreview.com/miles-davis-on-friendship/1208/

Political Priesthood of Fear

https://www.thestar.com/news/canada/2019/08/05/federal-leaders-except-scheer-march-together-at-vancouver-pride.html

When a politician uses their soap box
to uphold the laws of their personal
religious beliefs

they fail

as politician
as a leader

they lack compassion
or a want to understand,
and cross more than party lines,
displaying a lack or want

to show

any respect or love for their

fellow human
living being

the message given to those who live outside
their christened ideology
simplified
is,

the opposite person is less than human,
and not worthy of a compassion which
lives within open ears or hands

if each political sham(mer) stands as their own image of God
to judge
fingers point to the person lesser in thine own eyes

with the message

This Person not living as I
should Die

with a secret hope the
outsider

meets

the Creator of the personal
political
priesthood(ed) eye for

judgement.

In this –
the hope for a better
country

is

forever destroyed
and

heaven lost….

Maths’ Skin

I want to enjoy you as
we get old.
Math says we
wont –
but faith…

Island-wine and cheese
(h)ip (j)oints
and smooth skin turned
wrinkled.

But there lies the
fault
I am thinking of you in
skin –
rather than life…

and i still have a
lifetime with
you –

No matter the math…