The Transformation

In the piercing heat
of the unfolding day
we set sails for Avalon.

Guided by winds we
tested our fate, proving
it was fragile in the
desperate side-by-side
of our changing lives.

In the unrelenting fury of fiery dreams,
we fought recklessly with our thoughts
of salt and the hunger it ignites.

With a blank stare you spoke
of Nostradamus, defending his wrongs,
protecting his rights, I moved on to
Socrates and Skinner, where I survive
despite myself, somewhere in-between
my own beliefs and what I sell myself.

When the crust of fear owned our faces
when the residence of death arrived
with cracked-thunder we proclaimed
it was this life we so despised
we surmised it was enough
to explain the every single thing
that danced around our darkness,
until it was our every thing.


In the kinetic flow of the “I” of a hurricane,
the calm was achieved with the tilt of a sail
a different view of the same day, like a persistent
sun, shining through a fog-filled memory,
we danced upon our past, splashing champagne
in celebration, we realized at once that love
for us was meant for more than just one life.

When the tail swept us from our peace
we beckoned God, all the Gods that
anyone has ever faith..ed, then we
rocked, we rocked the sea with the
clear evidence of fearless children.
As your iridescent eyes held my gaze.

My last thought before the passing
of the storm, with the rebirth of
the golden sun was of you,
you, in your summer smock,
wind-blown hair like a horsetail
black as an eclipse, you tied
lines as I lusted for a final taste
of the skin beneath the cotton
bronzed and shining,
I praised God for
our survival.

We danced to avoid eye contact
I couldn’t take the heat behind
your stare, we imprinted ourselves
on each other as I quieted you
with the joining of our lips.


Years Later:

I was thinking about some slut
I met in Austin, how she did me
how I never forgot that hour
how often I’ve visited it
in frail lonely moments, that
suddenly turned horny.

How I knew I could never
love a whore for more than
one explosion and yet
cannot forget her for
a lifetime.

It’s the irony I keep,
this place that makes it all OK.
I push it aside and reach
for the chardonnay, chuckling
to myself about the speed of
those hips, the look in the eyes
of a woman who knew what
time was for.

It’s all about being honest,
isn’t it? this muse that runs through
hot blue veins to fingertips
that tap their blues until
the final sigh.

This second chance to live again
here, with my pen I write of her.

Once death is close enough
to feel, to taste, to touch, speaking
a mind seems hardly a struggle at all.




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