Resolve

I found my resolve 

Spitting at my peace 

Grabbing at that clock

The one I nailed up there 

The one I watch 

As it watches 

I found my resolve

I slipped into it 

With its rapid underbelly 

Pulling me breathlessly 

It gave me fear 

Of choking 

Of the drag

I found my resolve

And it promised nothing 

And took everything 

This Bliss

I know what God looks like 

That smile when I met you

The laughter that we shared 

How my cheeks burned

I have seen God before

In those frequent moments 

When our eyes meet 

When they really know each other 

I've felt God before

In the dead of the night

When your hands are there

When the grasp for me

I know who God is

And it in this

This bliss

I Am Big

I am big

Going way deeper 

Than the weight of my voice 

I am big

Stretching past the sun

And into that blackness 

I am bigger 

Than my eyes 

Than places they have seen 

And all that they have witnessed 

I am more 

Than what I've been given 

And certainly, I am more

Than what I have given 

I am there 

Where you've realized 

Your weakness 

I am there 

When you know 

Your strength 

I am big

That Voice

You're that voice
That I've always known
Drowned
Under a waterfall of "no"
Lost
Beneath layered lies
And the truth I twisted
You're that courage
From my youth
And my drunkenness
Enjoying
The ripple you cause
The light weight
The euphoric righteousness
You're that knowledge
That quietly pulses
Under my veil

I Wrote This in My Dream

You live in that space where
Nothing is resolved
Standing between anger at others
And fear of others
You doubt even your own mind
Because you were the only one
That you trusted
And you failed
You stand in darkness
Crying out for help
And desperate for assurance
Giving out your signals
To a world you find hostile
And you never realize
Your power

Storyteller Lover

I had a dream of you 

We threw our names into the sky

Watched them fall into our eyes

They were dripping with the future

Smelled of promises and lies

We dipped our feet into the stars

Wrapped our hands around each other 

How much space can we cover

Do tell me how much time I have

With you, my storyteller lover

Bubbly Wine

Speak to me softly

With the words of your hands 

Yes

Pitter patter love me 

 And know I understand 

Your hands 

The soft tones of your hands

Don't let me grow older 

Let us fall as we stand 

Whisper to me 

Your love and your brand

Detox

Last night, I cut away my hair

Beat my bones till they were bare

Saw the fact that you were scared

Saw your eyes and that they cared

Now you see my dark and true

You see the black I have for you 

But the realization of its worth

Will lead us to our second birth

A year with Jon David.

The beginnings of any romance are the easiest. It isn't hard to lust after the unknown, or to want the newest available model. Too many, I think, confuse this with the sweetest part of it all. Yeah sure, there are the prolonged glances, the smiles caught by the corner of your eye. At the beginning your heart will pound with nerves and exhilaration, you'll be nervous.  You'll be blind and happy. But, as any mother will tell you, the birth of it isn't the best part. 

I met Jon David Sanders on September the 6th, 2012. He had contacted me on Facebook to see if I would sing at the Cafe he was managing. Being out of work and in need of money, I counter offered with being a waiter and singing on request(which I never did). I got lost finding the place, 75 minutes from where I lived at the time, and was ten minutes late. I stumbled in the front door and there he was. Taller than I was, beautiful blonde hair covering his face, the biggest pearly smile, and piercingly grey-blue eyes. And I was taken. By his smile, by his delicate mannerisms, by his deep southern draw, I was taken. We met up every night after work. Then, we met every night in general. He took me to the best thrift stores, the best places to eat, taught me everything there was in my new big city. He met all of my friends, my family, smiled and spoke to anyone I said I liked. He constantly bought things he heard me talk about.

And yes, it was completely sweet. If I could describe the taste of that time it'd be nectar, but it wasn't by far the best of it all. The best I had to wait on. The best moments were when he cried, when he trusted me to be weak. The best moments were when he laughed, and I was the source. The best moments were when it wasn't sexual but it was intimate, and it was close. The best moments were when it was boring and safe. The best of it all were the expectations, the responsibility we had to this thing that was bigger than ourselves. 

This relationship is past it's dawn, but I have been enjoying the morning.

I love you, Jon David. 

Mes pleurs que ta voix parle.

Come to me, 

sweet fear. 

I taste the sugar 

of last night's 

wine from your lustful mouth.

Oh, how I savour that 

memory of you, 

dressed in nothing 

but my watchful eye, 

as I bathe in my own 

validated self and 

personal promise. 

What a pleasure and a suffering

is the flame of an encounter, 

and how I love the burn.

The Beauty that You're After

All I want is 

open fields,

open fields, 

open fields.

Quick.

This voice is someone

else's motivation. I will start

reading into the potential

of the miracle that is 

silence. I will give an ear to

the momentum of the present, 

keeping one ear on the door 

of hope. You know the one, 

that barrier that sparkles, numbing 

all your fears by the power of 

distraction, giving you ideas 

that ruin your life. Is it time 

that you wait on? Because I've 

never recieved a payment for my 

idleness.

Mother Moon.

It was late, and I had already forgotten who I was and what it meant to be awake. The clock pushed, quite relentlessly, into the space of silence. The hour where fear becomes us and darkness is a cage, comes slow enough.

I watched, under cover of my porch, as dreams danced proudly until they disappeared behind the anchor of their golden light. The light that had flood the street, bleeding onto stages such as my own, called them back, drawing them in with the promise of safety and a normal facad. And, I wondered nothing, yet only sat with hope of being overtaken with it, wonder.

Had it not been for the merciless heat, which the pavement seem to force feed anyone willing to stand in its presence, I would have never met her. The grand veil I was wearing, woven with pieces of artificial lights and prepackaged ideas of the definition of grandeur, lifted from me. I raised my face, wet from circumstance, and saw her very plainly, the moon. 

How enticing and majestic is the far and the mysterious. How delightfully familiar and unknown did she seem, and at such a moment when I had been momentarily blinded by the mindless and the mundain. Here I was, ready to give into a plastic, predetermined state of loving and living, and in strides Mother Moon. She comes bearing only the truth of something bigger than my eye, evidence of something holy and primal. She is the old beauty and longing. And with her painful faith, I wonder when it was I last saw her.

Golden Glow

For I am dying 

always, 

swaddled in the comfort 

of my shroud, 

through which I see,

with course clarity, 

the joy of the world. 

I will not fear

that which I do not know.

For what I do know

is life and love, 

and love and life eternal.

Morning

No one can comprehend

The morning

Not like one who stands at its threshold

Mutually giving it

That smell of renewal

And hopefulness 

Delay Me

He took

a slow drag from it,

pausing to perfectly hold on

to the clear, marrless night air.

He felt it's familiarity 

burning down into that place 

where he kept all his reasons 

why he never questioned 

the tantalizing pain of the flame. 

And then,

as though to mark his name

into our fears of the dark,

he released it all,

all that hot reverence 

he had for the world

and it's confines.

How he relished

in the view 

of the push towards

his own personal respect

going up in the smoke

of his savored self-indulgence. 

And how he hoped 

that someday pleasure would keep

from fleeting from sight,

and fading into the night.

Blurs of Yesterday and Tomorrow.

He walks, bent 

by the weight of his echoe

from yesterday's cry. 

How he mistrusts those 

characters he created 

so long ago, and now 

how he carries them

behind him. In front

of the world, he drags

that dog, a fierce beast

he hasn't loved since 

it was murdered by his future.

Oh, and how he floods 

the past, tying the weight of 

his tears to the airy 

reverb of his laughter. Never hearing

the truth he seeks to speak,

he lies down into the night. 

The night, where we all meet 

blurs of yesterday and tomorrow. 

Complete Space and Time

Vilify me, 

for my body must 

whisper into his

under the canopy 

of the apple tree. 

The budding branches 

drop its fruit all over, 

and watch as they roll

off our backs

into the tree line. 

We have never been 

anywhere but here, 

yet what a journey it took

to be present, 

to be so undeniably 

in love. 

The Coffin and the Cradle.

Sat directly in front
of me, only allowed to see
a quarter of you,
your face, my eyes
are the lamp light. I flood
every memory, I feel
every year that you are. Me
and you are alone, but not
far are the towns people, the gods
that live in their minds, only spoken
to reiterate their power. Less
time was given to Rome, than we
need to understand the mirror. Your eyes
remind me of death, the great adventure
into life. Where did you first breathe
and when was I born. Into you,
into time, to death, and me.

Is He God?

Why do more people at the bottom 

look upwards? Have I forgotten how 

to become less? Has comfort stolen 

my memories or the struggle? Of God?

The man out my window is black

and how I fear the night. It's broad,

his piercing white smile. And he knows

he invokes my humanity. Where is my

real reflection? Is he me? Am I responsible 

for his smile?

Tennessee Wheat

Every stalk sways

dancing to the push 

of a forceful world, 

blowing history,

evoking visionless traditions.

Every strand is accounted

as woven and thread, 

with security in the routine. 

I never saw a single,

individual stalk 

stand straight up 

towards the Heavens, 

or the opportunity that occupys 

the morning Sun.

All I can see 

is this ocean of one. 

When the Smoke is Gone

'Man, sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself."- Miles Davis

Sometimes silence is
medicine for the unattainable.
A chilled drop in a boiling pot
appeases your denial,
but nothing soothes time.
You've held the matches,
afraid of the burns,
but a fire always turns
to smoke and then
opportunity.

First Love

Wet across my lips
Soft across my heart
Surging through my fingertips
Pounding till we part
Your hands wrapped around my hips
Have been since the start
You can drink me in in sips
You can have my heart

No sense.

My eyes opened
Countless dreamy dimensions
Colliding into some nearly forgotten
Painting of a lie
Tangibility
The only currency was the gold
Lamp light bouncing
The only thing left to buy
Time
We figured out where tomorrow was
Yesterday had long passed
Away
Into the realm of regrets and fond memory
Where we all find our pacifier
Self satisfaction
Is a horse with no reins

My eyes open.
Pale light dances down
the wall to your face.
My face feels
the blood rush of dehydration.
This body has traveled
many miles of time,
of darkness.
I am thirsty,
and it is a present condition.
I bathe in this light,
clean of the night.

River.

You may call me
a blasphemer,
a ridiculous optimist,
one groping for blindness
or sight,
but I can't help feeling that it is all
temporary.
I can't help feeling that I am
forever.
All of their words,
painted on my face,
fade like the tags of a former
lover of the streets,
coward of the night.
This clay world with out me is
formless.
I am the river.

Jack Jack

Every morning
To the sound of his opening eyes
He pops to his feet
Ready
Resiliently grinning
As though to spite those who aren't
He wags his tail
He thrust proof onto the world
"This is for those who pretended.
For those that feign ignorance of me."
There is no weight
He does not understand regrets
Choreographed, he sniffs purpose
Lifting his dancing feet down the hall
There is no obstacle at the foot of your bed
Soon he is searching for your eyes
Yearning for the recovered
Hoping to teach you
Every morning
He wakes up clean

Let Me Down Easy

On the day that I die
Push my body to the sky
Secure the anger that I tied
To someone who is justified
Let my eyes be set aside
Allow my life to be the guide

May my bones be made of glass
Filled with questions I did ask
Clothed in all the time I lost
Above my riches and their cost
Bathed in the white I never allowed
My own good becoming my shroud

"Fag" "Love"

It was there on his chest
"Fag"
Was it on mine?
I never wanted to be
the cattle of a movement.
Charm.
I wanted flattery.
I needed the validating force,
the historic power of a "you and I".
Let someone,
anyone,
give to me
identity,
mission,
tomorrow.
Grandma never had to scream,
march for it.
What a painfully easy,
 flaw of a promise
she willed to me.
Pulling up her onions,
cultivating all she deserved
from the world,
from her master.
Why was it not mine?
I assumed as much.
As a child I did
learn,
pray,
behave.
Where, oh where, is the faithful
idea of deserving?
I have sowed a life,
but they took the reaping.
Now, here I stand in the middle
thoughtfully branded with it.
"Love"

Right Here

We know where we are
No clue to where we goin
It's our right to be afraid
But we busy with our lovin
I see just in front of me
But the clock, I hear it tickin
When will we close our eyes
And realize that we dreamin

It's Brewing.

A warm wind is brewing.

The traveling force

 of green pastures, flowers,

and the sweet, over-powering

smell of honeysuckle is rushing

to meet us. A brighter sun

travels faster than a mother

to greet her wandering child.

A cooler, refreshing rain

will cover us, blanket the ground,

drowning us in the bloom,

the rebirth. Windows will open,

and we will all expose ourselves

to the tantalizing danger of the sun.

 The Earth will start to heal,

to repair the anguish of a raging Winter,

inspiring us all

to forgive,

to see each other plainly.

And, in turn, our hearts will heal.

Our souls will start an eruption

of creativity,

 the type of thinking and loving only done

 when Spring comes. It will sweep us away,

It will clean us. We will learn living

through it. Glimpses of hummingbirds,

will teach us the meaning of a companion.

 The resurgence of a lost vibrant color

 will teach us restoration.

Renewal. 

Spring will give us no option.

Bliss.

It's brewing.

Love Music

What is the sound of love?
The floor creeks and I hear it
I feel it's vibration underfoot
My heart aligns with its rhythm
Feverishly beating
What is the sound of love?
The sufferable silence made
Crisp and clear nothingness
Created with patience and care
Stale air loudly advertising
The absence of
What is the sound of love?
The delicate turn of the hinges
The careful tiptoe forward
And the volume's on full blast
What is the sound of love?
Inhale
Exhale

Shine bright, Lavinia.

Hey there, Lavinia.
What did you sell today?
"It's night. It's over." I hear you say.
When you remember, will you pay?

My innocent Lavinia.
Have you painted in the dark?
Daylight be nature's truest narc
And shame can't erase the brush's mark.

Come on, Lavinia.
Truly what's your biggest threat?
Bliss is in the freedom to forget.
You can't sell your name to pay your debt.

Love Liberates

I saw you dancing yesterday 

In my dreams

Your feet were clay

What a strange and lavish creation

And how you swayed on your foreign foundations.

You'll never really be that flame

You'll not dance

Your feet are tame

You threw away your one, true salvation

Too scared of love and your own liberation.

Threading Tangibility

A marble, shimmering,
rolls across every ridge,
sweeps between every groove
of an aging floor,
in a house that fades.
bleached to the palest form
of some semblance of red.
Sweat glides down my back,
through my spine.
I'm hot, dry
from the heat of it,
this house,
this chair.
Just when you start
to doubt,
to fall into eternity,
the air burns,
and you feel the fire.
The world has a thousand pictures,
but when you are effected
you are here.

On the edge of dusk.

Did you know
I wanted to wow
The world?

Under the Cover of Day

There are those few
days with the clouds
hovering over and through us.
It is then I take it,
cream in my coffee, larger
breakfasts, and longer,
lingering dreams.
On those early days
when I marinate in it,
the delight of personal allowance,
I push to worry.
A prepared concern,
reminding myself,
"It is those who have
known fear, that truly realize
safety."

"It runs along Southern."

I hear
it, the foreboding force
of a hot pushing
river of steam. Screaming
out the unsettled conscience,
a swift seeping of
bold, boiling longings for
others, for changing. Me,
I marinate in it, in it's healthy
poignancy. Nervous with it's involvement,
it's knowledge of my potential, I lean
deeper into my porch steps. Oh, how
trains cut through thirsty paintings,
leaving only tracks
of fear and dangerous
new ideas. I want
only not to
doubt, to
wonder.

God.

Once there was
a cat,
hidden,
hungry,
and completely wild.
I went to it
the rescuer,
open,
offering,
and guided by helplessness.
We came together
a shadow in the sun,
considerable,
imminent,
and then it bit me.

Red Balloon.

The wind pushed
me and my body
asking for a reaction,
that I refused.
Though, mind seemed to go
there, in defiance.
What if I was moved,
taken in by the wind?
The exhale of this world,
this world I claw and craw
to take hold of,
to hold on to,
finally directing me.
Am I strong
for saying, "No.''
Am I foolish
for doing what I know,
for attaching value to that?
I remember the child
that stood and watched,
as it traveled.
Watching the sun pierce
that lucid, red balloon,
I grew envious.
What it must be like to go
Blind and full of vision.

My hate.

My hate is
Mine,
My personal,
Negative reflections of
Me.
We are
Projectors
Of me.
All of us
Variating this body,
Where I
Fester in insecurity
And it belongs
To you,
All of you.
A cycle of incivility,
I am casting
The stones of my
Discontent
And feeling
The bruises of yours.

Value

I'm inside with it
all, the bleeding
results of my insatiable mind.
I can't bare
the thought of standing
dry, abandoned
in the force of a world
identical to myself.
Is this greed?
No. But can they
understand the difference
between my needs
and the wantings of the market place.
Would any man give
thought to my soul
as it struggles, as it sways
upon the auction block?
I could sell,
give away my projections,
let them decide the cost.
But, when it ends,
when the bidding storm dissipates,
as I stand in the raw
what will be my value?