The Illusionist

Black strands and white hands.
Moments drip, raindrops in time,
and stars glimmer for orphans, charting a course for home.

Exhalations in the drab and lonely night,
frosted breath, solitary, such secrets,
revealing cold mists, admissions, from summer to fall to winter again.

So long.
The truth as it ticks and burns and waits,
and is withheld.
Such a fleeting thing,
devoured by the maelstrom.

So sad.
A lined brow, a river’s etching by the eyes,
but blue, blue, blue — lamenting lost light.
Something revealed, seen, known and cherished.

He is me,
even in this heat with cold lips,
the delicate tendrils of my heart stuccoed to the illusion.
Black strands and white hands.

We are Like Wolves

There’s a feeling in the air. Something dense, full, and saturated with memory, sadness, and desire. A cutting wind whips around the wooden threshold and the cold assaults the flesh like thousands of pricking daggers. It’s tireless, unrelenting, and impossible to escape or ignore.

              Cast the runes on the white furs. Cast the runes till the spirit stirs.

Orange shimmering flames spark and pop in the middle of the small room — their heat colliding with the damp freeze that pours into the hut through aged cracks and carefully aligned seams and beams. The sensation of snow is all around, despite the fire, fresh straw, and pelts that pack the space.

His deep exhale emits feathery apparitions, and with each breath, it’s as though the pieces of time that comprise him are wrestling to break free and realize a place somewhere in the immortal plane.

              Cast the runes for the fighter lost. Cast the runes for the heart betossed.

Continue reading “We are Like Wolves”

The Anniversary

Lines flag the throat and knees are noise,
but I remember the time back —
the easy sun when we were young.

Rotations and revolutions see tender changes,
from flowers, jewels and racing hearts,
to coffee drips, notes and evening’s tired hellos

There’s wear on the bridge and the back aches —
sameness fades as time rides the tide,
but I remember the time back —
when the fresh snows fall, or the calm rain,
the pour of a drink in a clean cup, or the ocean waves.

We, together, a timeless love song
that I cannot be without.

The Tattoo

Blood and flame,
quiet sparks, this wooden bed.
Gods know the quickening —
the eye, the hand, the wrist, wrapped in fine skin.

Flesh marks tracing bled pattern,
soft heathen.
Horns and raven’s wings — cut me in silver.

Earth.

Spread me with axes and shields,
all that fair and fierce longing.

Over and under, over and under,
weave braids and veins
and cut the heart, fighter.
A shield born of ash and mist.
Touch me again.

Touchless

Packed away in my mind’s space,
he waits, ever-present,
wrapped in cords and sheets —
in whispering curtains and dancing morning dust.
The midnight moon conjures that invisible stranger,
outlined in pointed shapes, blue and heat,
glossy gray, and soft, wintered loops.
My guts, my skin, hopeless in the throat’s sound,
audible only in the sponge twist electricity of thought.
Sighs and a pounding pulse against the touchless hands — ethereal ecstasy beyond the dirt of the earth, oceans, and time.
Daylight banishes him to sweetened vapors, whispers, and sun streams,
and I am left physical — changed.

The Faraway

Open the door to the stars and lead me.
Jagged dark, the backdrop to moonlit points on restless waters.
Twinkle, lightyears away, our breath frosting in the void.
I am clawing for locks and keys and the respite of the shining light …

in your hollows,

in your center.

Rainbow auroras, the swipe swirl of fingers,
and lips whispering of faraway places in the sky.

The Dark

Stranger, bring me to the dark. There are salty swells that lull the hull, and I am swirling, hurtling toward the abyss.

A cold ache spreads throughout — a voracious desire beyond the quell.

Those books bang, such a ponderous sound, the vibrations and expectations.

Bring me to the dark. The candlelight and the anxious warming breath, unrelenting, fast and impure.

Lieutenant, we feel the difference in the darkness, and honesty uncaged and wild. Leadership surrendered and our minds bear, forcing toward the blue-black of spattered stars.

Secretive voices are wispy rasps, and I lament my life’s beat; how far I’ve allowed his hands.

Pirate, please.

Golden knuckles and calloused touch — the skeptical brow and petrified gaze. That pounding, desirous pulse. Bring me to the dark again.

The Thieves Spell

He is heavy in the chest — his limbs like petrified bark. Sweat dapples his brow, and there is a cloudiness in his sight – a type that even enchantments cannot correct – a poison that courses through the tiny tubes of his existence, striking and thwarting all that makes his matter.

She is a summer storm as she works, her hands muddling and concocting. He eases as he hears her careful worrying, ad he minds the beating of his heart: fast, then slow, then fast again, and then slow. Sun behind clouds, then moon, then sun again, and then dark.

Continue reading “The Thieves Spell”

The Freedom Fighter

Rain pearls touch and slough off leaves,
damp fog languishes and rolls.
The sodden tread nears, and breath;
crisp, fresh, upswept, and sharp.
Shining shapes upon flesh —
flashing, brilliant;
eyes like a breaking dawn, cresting sun.
Brush near the throat, the manic beating,
and sign to me of sands and terrors.
Open-lipped and torrid, seasoned by galaxies and dust, we resist.
This, in our secret silence,

dark star,

vibrating daydream.

The Scientist

Late summer’s long shadows hide a sparkling shimmer of dying warmth.
Notions swept up in cool breezes,
and fermented dreams linger in the strange science of failed connections.
There, the sounds of a stranger’s voice,
an exhale, and a kiss that’s never been,
drowning in the lustful, coated swirl of a drained cup.