#laterpoem

emerge into the cool air, walk a way you haven’t gone before, clear the fog from the east today.

warm sprinkles of rain greet your light feet, a welcome guest as you stroll calle 65, mentally forming new signposts.

this city was once so foreign, a tangle of streets and speed bumps, one direction blurring into another.

slowly, our limbs have made pathways, remembering landmarks and banal signs, guiding us home under Liz Taylor’s eyes.

5/30 for National Poetry Month

We carved our names in the tree of life. Gate-crashed the garden of Eden, slipping past the bouncer with the flaming sword.

We danced naked in the Flood, dodging raindrops and lightning smitings from jealous small gods.

We came to rest on a mountaintop and clove to each other in the absence of another guide.

No holy ground could hold us, so I made your flesh a temple, I worshiped you on my knees, your legs a pillar of fire and a pillar of cloud.

In the valley of the shadow of life we rode samsara like a Ferris wheel, gasping with each passing: I can see everything from here.

We spun till we slept and then woke from dreams of deity to our mortal world. I called it a spiritual journey and and you asked me what I meant by spirit. Heaven and karma fell like scales from our eyes: If God was love disease wouldn't be built into us.

So we carved our names in a tree that will live when we have died. When holy books taste like honey but burn like fire in my gut, I do not believe we will rise from death. I can only offer this:

Deep in the feeling is either urgent or complacent.  The motion causing ripples which latter will be expelled in International airports.  At work the mere mention of a city can cause the tiny hats of large insecurities to sharpen.

Leif Erickson is the guide.  Actually he is the territorial sales representative.  His phone number is burried in a pile of parchment on a long ship in the Natural Museum of history.  Leif is out in America though.  He has traded dignity for the dollar.

The wood carved is still of the highest quality.  Examined with a microscope the fibers can be seen holding hands.  The wood reminds of last evening - our first - and the lack of wood.

Weekend is here and armour on but not in the minivan worn worn smooth sense of the word.  Bubbles and darkness are in the future - fighting for the thrill of blood stains.  Tide with bleach used to be antibacterial.

I want to burn myself down Just to see what would grow If there would be any gold in my ashes If the carbon I’ve stuffed into my settling cracks over the years would become something stronger when light hit it