Poetry

Distracted by the irresistible,
misleading is how you stole my heart.
Not just sleight of hand, no, plenty of it.
Grand larceny I’ll never report. Nor admit.
I prefer to believe I’m worth stealing.

Speak not of proof, 
tell me not your base of data,
rhythm of algo,
expose of ponentials,

the wine bottle on my finger
is no indication of clumsiness
but memory, as in, I need to know
where this wine is; it’s not
an indication of a drinking problem,
it’s a celebration of everything,
how nothing exists without love,
plus, the dilemma of extracting
tender parts of yourself from delicate

tattoo the outline of love onto your imagination
etch your name on swirling winds, blow away
the sand of the desert to see what is written beneath
erase your epitaph, replace it with a date
of your choosing; ink is mightier than the world

now that you see
her naked in her beauty
do you understand
the love at her command

parallel clouds incise carmine and burgundy
brazen pink, sultry purple, jewels, fine wines

russet dry bushes vainly weave
in field of golden straw
that lay down long ago

Curve of gunwales, pair of lips that skirt a kiss,
point into the wind, and cut through like a beautiful
smile cuts through a room of empty compliments;
try to keep up, you are tested on the crest of each wave,
the full mouth of your canoe sings into the storm,
you must propel both into the words of its song.

Carved flickering monstrous faces, magic
light bends trees with molten sneers,
street bobs with pumpkin globes,
channel markers to guide the dread.

I no longer trust notebooks,
they are not reliable.
I have lost too many;
I grieve each one.
I cannot commit to another,
I have lost too much:

The Blues flattened my fedora into a beret,
stole my zippy-de-doo-die-ay,
gave me a saxophone,
told me, “blow it kid, you can never go home.”
I keep snapping my fingers to invisible sounds
and I squeak confused the squares to confound,
it’s times like these I do believe,
the Blues have got me Beat.