2 minutes

one minute to make the choice,

one minute to plan the escape,

120 seconds to fully commit

to the adventure of

cutting away the debris of  past visions,

and 1 minute more to determine 

the exact whereabouts

                     to leave its waste....

service

i sit across from you on borrowed prayer,
hair sweeping the open redemption of love.
knees bent.
folded into one another.
to keep chaos still,
i allowed my heart to wrap itself around your presence,
go the distance to stretch itself far enough to catch your
soul by the fingertips,
in order to wrestle it to safety, 
rescue the torn bits
and....
restore its freedom.

blind spot...

when you see the clouds gathering and smell the distance of rain, 
you never anticipate that the sky is going to open up right on top of your house. 
bringing the type of rain you can see through and notice that everything beyond the porch is still dry. 
then you realize that you're wet, 
walking in a constant puddle, 
experiencing gusts of wind, 
strong enough to push you around but leaving you with the option of falling down. 

i saw the clouds, 
felt the wind go cold,
heard the low hum of thunder,
and before i could enjoy the deep breath of dusk, 
the storm was on my front steps. 

gleaming, 
showing it's full chest, 
the strength of it's lungs, 
and the full reach of it's wrath. 
i feel it's pulse,
swelling, 
growing, 
giving, 
me time to secure my perimeter. 

where did you come from?????

I'm from the horizon.
where the sky
openly obsesses over the earth
showering blue kisses and orange winds.

I'm from that place no one understands.
the space between pleasure and pain,
the fluid description between
what water is and what it tastes like.
i am the mixed action of passion hidden behind despair.

You are from the ocean.

where the air breaths freedom's scent,

where still beaches worship

the crashing waves and call it a miracle.

You are the quiet of a whisper,

the lasting memory of an intimate touch,

the dream catcher exhaling power, releasing fear. 

your tongue pours peace into my mouth
and....
my lips drip the liquid concrete
that fill the webs of your net...
somehow we call it love,
rehearse our lyrics,
write each other's vows,
chant the holy prayers,
only to absorb the creation of our energy.

i am from the horizon

you are from the ocean

We are the lingering footprints of Destiny, 

dressed in the aftermath of Fate.

Day Eighteen Challenge... Crime of the Maybe's

the straight broad took my girl.

but maybe she was never mine if the taking was so easy,
maybe it was the fact that i didn't want her bad enough,
maybe time corroded her patience,
maybe time constructed the coldness of my heart,
maybe this best,
maybe this broad is her blessing in all of her straightness,
maybe i'm the one who needs to learn,
maybe i need to be potted, incubated for 73 days before i can be planted in the richness of pink soil
between brown thighs,
maybe i need to grow,
maybe it's the care-less-ness that destroyed the possibilities, 
but... 

she tried,
she waited,
she cried,
waited again,
and then she prayed,
maybe we should have laid
hip to hip, side by side and prayed in unison,
maybe i didn't see her, like she couldn't hear me,
maybe we forgot how to touch each other's mind,
maybe this is how it's supposed to be,

maybe this is where i accept the "for now". 

Day Seventeen Challenge... Tears & Dead Leaves

would i be wrong if i told you,
i wanted it to be you....
wanted this forever,
wanted this for however long it takes to wrap time
around the sun and drag it across the ocean's floor
slowly...

would i be wrong if i wanted to lay you down,
and caress the memory of your past,
ride the wave of your fury,
and kiss your forearms at the peak of your bliss.

would i be wrong if i wanted to
have you,
feel you,
take you
over
and
over
and
over again...then repeat that rhythm backwards in baritone?

would i be wrong if I
wanted
to
keep
you
?

Day Sixteen Challenge.... truck stop romance

sundays are the days you choose to love me.

you are the bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful.

and i am the lone truck stop, route 37 going south.

i am the routine stop,

the place you go to fill up, the place you go for repairs, that trusting ear for highway gossip, that quiet place that whispers encouragement , the place you can’t stay away from because i have everything you need, that “one-stop shop” place.

but you….

are just an 18-wheeler, the thirsty kind.

the kind that drinks until the drink is gone, the one that takes all and leaves scraps. the one who only stops on sundays, if you feel up to it… but let’s be honest you stop on sundays after weeks of running, when everything you have is gone, when you have given what cannot be replenished.

and on those sundays i wash your body, buff away the scratches left by ungrateful lovers. i polish your wheels, re-calibrate your fears and listen carefully to the pur of your babbling engine. i mend the broken and balance you, align your spirit and ready you for the road.

i do this because i love to see that bright blue 18-wheeler, you do this because you love my stop.

but this sunday you’ll have to find another…

i need consistency… a trunk that stops frequently. one that unloads before it loads, one that stays to make sure the stop has what it needs, one that gives and takes but leaves enough to reserve for a later. one that listens the buzz of the lights, one that caresses the handles of the pump so that the diesel follows easy. one that only stops at my stop.  

  

it’s sunday,

you are the bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful,

driving south on route 37,

i am the truck stop,

but ….

shops closed.

your bright blue 18-wheeler, pretty and boastful is

no longer welcomed,

Here.