Resistant Chill

Stinking summer breeze,

Leave this realm!
I cannot abide by the casual slaughter
of friendly nasal cavities
and cozy blankets.

The fortitude of winter
is never enough.
Burning through the
blue glaze of peace
shouting at us all to
sprout anew, live again as if
light actually exists.

Damn heartthrob in the sky
pulsating your matriarchal heat
across all landscapes
allowing your sister
to watch us while you
stun the rest into painful,
aching life.

Leave us be, to our cold reverie.
Drift to a collection of sentient stardust
more deserving your heat.

Sweet, lost mother,
your unconditional presence
your unblinking gaze of a love so pure
our eyes sour
from looking for too long.

Etched into my shoulders
are your fingerprints.
Connecting them resembles
the families of faraway stars
who laugh at your cause
who tear up
knowing your mission is never done.

Soul of summer
breaking apart the destitute ice
trailing from wrist to chest–

Fine!

The red resin of existence
will be free to roam within me.

I owe you that much.

Lazuli

Okay I have 6 minutes to write a poem

I’ve been drinking

and truth be told I’m not entirely done.

Unfortunately, 

your distance makes me feel warmer 

as if the way you reciprocate

every other moon

brings more brightness

to the skies claimed 

under your name.

The way you bury yourself

rather than leave me to appreciate

the nuance of air

renders all wandersome thoughts

shovels, built into my wrists

the pulse of me

calling to your subsurface 

frequency.

Erupt

that I might again

say, “hello,

how is your morning 

and, beyond carving

lapis out of clouds,

how might I better

the stride of your soaring?”

Sunberry Touch

Embers fall from your eyes

as you blink away the shy flames

of our centered gaze.

 

Base intentions rise

quelled only by inner fountains

set to sprinkle on Saturday–

noon time, splintered sun tans,

tentative rays.

 

Campfire veins fail to cool

even as summers come to close.

Ample airings of argent hues

clenched, bark worn toes.

 

Speak with lips softened

by separate encounters

each time,

a step closer

to our shared heat.

 

Dancing tongues only know

so many steps.

We grew feet for a reason.

 

Remember the first time

the sun claimed your flesh as its own?

I fear the same of our first touch.

 

Burn me, afternoon lover

with the sunberry juice

of your blue sky brush.

Rusted Ribcage

Etched into the palm of time is a personal clock

ticking off each second

as it happens to pass

with individual volition.

Each finger, screwed back on

leaves the fist as creaky

as the release.

They don’t write much anymore 

but what can be certain

is the night with no moon

is favorable for those

who deny any sort of wrong doing 

in the face of atonement.

Seeking forgiveness 

must be everything 

opposite to selfish.

I do not want to feel better.

I deserve to be

chest deep 

in the manicured muck

of my own making.

I should have a tattoo

composed of January tears

and spring weather.

It will read,

“Love never knows best.”

The heart can pound 

against the walls of my

shale cage,

but it can never break free.

As such,

the hands must act.

As the heart beats blood

into the remorseful limbs,

creaking fingers must grasp

the iron handle of due servitude 

easing, as able,

the weight within 

other cages–

loosen rusted locks,

burn regretful seconds

tock, through to tick

cold as snow, soft as tin.