every piece

good morning kisses
meant nothing

until you
formed the dance of your lips
across my shoulders -

blazing paths through
snowy whites to
territories left
closed due
to
hazardous risk.

and yet you clench
every piece of me.

every damaged piece that has
remained uncovered,
untouched
after the Fall -

putting me back
together,
fusing bad
with
incredulous feeling:

becoming redemption
in every step.

perfect redemption,
pixel after pixel
of granulated form,

grandiose form,
forming the every piece
of Darwin's finest creation.

Rich influence

December twenty-second
two thousand and ten:
i fell a little more
in to the irresistible
maze of

your fingers,
your thighs,
your beating vessels --

my cancer,
swallowing me
halfway alive -

always,
endlessly
divine.

life's chopping board

fingers frozen in failed determination.
these white slabs are my canvas.
my canvas, broken
over a stone chair -

sometimes it snows in november here.
little white flecks gracing blades,
melting in inferiority,
making us remember a time in which
the sun blasted cement
created heat waves and hail balls of sweat
making us wish for gentler weather -

but there is nothing gentle
about weather.
nor is there anything gentle
about art, about science,
about people, about us -
maybe sometimes we

hope wish pray
kill imprison cry for
cry about scream to petition for
something more gentle

without realizing that everything
is a harsh, dancing guillotine,
giving the impression of a pillow
until the head is place within -

and sometimes
all we've left to do
is lose our heads.

visual capacity of undefined language -
or maybe it was
indefined
illdefined
predefined

whatever it was,
you motioned to me, fingers swinging
like birch tree limbs
in that quiet time between autumn
and winter;

you were telling me
about the river and the winter
and how the more it snows,
the more the mighty Mississippi would flow
during cottonwood season -

"good habitat for rotten tires and bleach jugs,"
you'd say, because
sarcasm was always
your best
Sunday Suit:

all i could think of was the settling
of the ripples on my exposed feet,
the smell of magnolias dying in the wind,
and the sound of a thousand bees
crying to be set free.