beauty, and inaccessibility

What does the wind feel like, I wonder, that doesn't stick
to my licked finger-
print. The lines
of my palms politely curled
darken daily, settle down. It troubles me:
somewhere leaves blush under the sun's affections but
I can never know to just what bright confused complexion
of red and gold. Yes, it troubles me, the limits
of the skin I'm in,
the bones that bind, the beauty unseen.
But here is some consolation at least: the wind I taste is sweet.

091712

You knew me
once, the once -
I. I
knew her
too -
her two eyes charged with
violent sunlight
were mine. I remember violence. I remember
breaking
lines but now I shatter words  -
I cling to thoughts wrung out I try to
climb the rungs up, out
I try to shout, but the hand slips.
I'm a tongue tripping up, I watch
the motion of lips
gibbergabbering.
My ears are
old. My fingerprint
decays. I delay.
I've got nothing else to say.

Boogars, A Poem.

I sit here and try to be this thing I was
once - A Poet
- back when i could think and dream and
love.
instead i'm a lonely slug meandering
thick gray head bent eyes swivelling
drivelling, a trail of formless infertile muck i slap a title to:
Boogars, A Poem.
i laugh a little to think of
you reading dried snot like
tea leaves. then I weep
because i crave the touch of a breathing beating world
but all I feel all I can 
feel is the weight
of this
shell as I sludge across the page
and maybe-I-don't-give-a-shit. that's what scares me most of all.

04092012

into your throat as you slept i
mouthed let
me be deliriously weak let me

be the broken-winged bird
i am so tired of flying
i would sing for you until i die
if i could rest

like the feeling of love
here stopping your breath

let me be
precious and never break
me please
tell me its ok

the quest, essentially.

If I find a stream
that tastes like mud and the restless feet
of naked people - if I find trees
old and wild, brooding over a shade no cunning eye has seen
and torn - if I find an unknown place,
would I find a space in me
unfilled, a bit of
mind still free?

sleeping duty

she slept and as she
slept life crept
a briarbush unchecked neglected
circling about her wrists up her thighs
tight round her neck
unwary she became the whore
of thorns that prodded pierced and tore and
not a soul there was that knew
the roses were too sweet that grew
did you not stop to screw one too
boohoo boohoo
boohoo boohoo

textual frustration

Some men will strip themselves like
dead fish and lay their spines in 
my hands: They want me to stroke their bones, 
I think. I'd prefer if they were octopi
with fat purple tentacles I couldn't fight shoved into 
me against my whimpering objections. 
But no. These men are 
pens: I suck their ends and 
crack them between my fingers when the words won't 
come. 
Is there no load to degrade my hate? 
Is there no man that can break my hands 
so they'll never write again?