trihardist

Retirees peruse the yellow-bound 14-day rentals, the recent acquisitions, Enjoying social hour, a brief foray Into intellectual stimulation As pre-teens wait for a turn To check their Facebooks. Or whatever. A community college student Browses half a dozen shelves For anything of use. A Friend of the Library Directs him to the Kansas State Library's Online repository of full-text articles. He ends up with a meager stack Of texts that will turn out to be Mostly useless. I sit with my journal Near a window in which A potted plant suns itself, Absorbing vitamin D. It's kind of fuschia, With underleaves of ochre. In this cor

When I'm inside you, You speak in tongues-- A lilting foreign language, Litany of vowels. They rise and fall In dialectic crescendoes, Dynamics of your pleasure. Silence, when your breath catches And holds-- Head twisted to your right, Eyes closed-- And your collarbones flush burgundy. I stop moving as your breath resumes, Your heart still pounding. I stay inside you And feel your pulse.

Thunder smacks our bedroom window, And you snuggle close to me. I ignore the sky's flashing And the legato sweep of rain outside. Surviving the storm is a matter of keeping you close. I return from distant business And seem to you still absent. I've ignored the soft sweep Of doubts and hesitations. Surviving means getting away from you. It comes easy When the wind breaks tree limbs And Kansas thunder lashes our roof. But the dull monotony of cold, Soaking wind And rain, The grey skies of staying Put in a place I don't belong . . . That's harder to weather.

My body is coiled for drawing; Problem is, I'm laying in bed. My alarm clock tells me to sleep, But the tackering in my head Is like a fucking locomotive -or- A loose-reined stagecoach team. I wish I were equipped with a smokestack; I'd vent some steam. The Wild West of my body and The Wild West of my brain Refuse still to be settled, Refuse to be tamed.

How pleasant it is, Lord,     To fly to the embrace     Of that You've created:     The smiles of nature,     Caresses of a blue sky,     Birds wheeling in aeronautic ecstatics;     The embraces of trees     Folding over the paths     That my feet pound as I relish my body's fitness;     The gentle kisses of stars     Brightening the sky     As coyotes cry their failures and successes. How pleasant it is, Lord,     To rest in the embrace     Of what You have made:     The smiles of strangers,     Caresses of lovers,     Bodies reeling in bright-hued ecstatics;     The embraces of she     Folding over and i

I offer my hand many times as we scramble In the wrong kinds of shoes over Sedona's smooth boulders. We chose this place 'cause it sounded The most sacred: Cathedral Rock. The air gets colder As the sun descends, and we come into The shade of the red, twin pillars. The junipers twist Where the energy is strongest, said The guide at the visitors' center. You--out of nowhere--list Like a tilting galleon and abruptly Sit down. I tense, moving to you in concern; You've been ill recently. You Point; you feel strong energy from there. I turn And walk towards a particularly Twisty tree. I'm still skeptical as to what-- If any--special

It's a new room, new space, an unfamiliar space. There's an unfamiliar body next to mine. Unfamiliar arms wrapped around me. Unfamiliar stomach against my back. Unfamiliar breath across my ear. Last night was new and unfamiliar. The sun oozes through the blinds slowly, like cold oil; it looks light moonlight. I realize after a few sleepy blinks that it's morning. It's morning, and I've hardly slept. The light sits softly on my new lover's cheek, like moonlight. But the fresh, gray feeling of the dawn is unmistakable. It's nearly time to wake up, to leave, to end our night and move on. But the magic of imitation moonlight cradles me. Lingeri

The soul within me-- The Self that is me-- Has chilled in this long winter. Emotions, stiff and aching With disuse, well and swell and smolder In my all-seeing eyes And my heart, fletched with feathers of hope, Flies towards its mark. A voice cries out In the wilderness of my mind, But remains unheeded, Assumed unneeded. Each private, silent step Of a metaphorical stalker Lands in the rhythm of the hunt Known only to me, Heard only by me, And seen by none at all. Game trails spread out in flows Of black India ink. The pad of paws keeps time to The scritching of my pen. Blank, leather-bound pages Are my woods.

The fairy light of future calls me forward toward swinging pixie flames Runner lights stretch above and below me they are handrails They guide me seeking through my fog

(AKA "All is One") Love is like a blanket Or burnt umber, a heavy quilt That smells of your grandmother's house. Love is the set Of your jaw when, wracked with guilt, You acknowledge a loss To your spouse. It brushes against the lids Of your eyes, a kiss From a daughter, a lover, a son; It fills and gives And holds and it insists That you alone are all, And all of us are one.