Sweat, Lace, and Coffee

I pass by a little cafe,
Her eyes look up from the fresh lattes.
The smell intoxicates me,
Like the nape of her neck,
Where the waves of her dark hair lay.

The taste of her lips,
Sensually electric like a first sip.
I thought I forgot her little things,
A laugh, smile, her dove soul’s wings.

Years of looking and none compare,
So many fools and idiots,
Without passion or flair.

In my dreams I hold her face.
We laugh like lovers,
fingertips running over sweat and lace.

A whip on my back,
Her hands bound in leather,
Every fantasy must be lived,
Life’s too short for anything other.

I’ve often wondered,
What would be? Is she for me?
I’m content to be hopeful and reminiscent like Quixote,

Sitting quietly with my coffee.


Raven Haired Queen

A raven haired queen,
With the fire of Irish flames
Smiles with Heaven’s sheen,
The envy of the dames.

Not confined to stained glass,
The Mother has nothing on her.
No light of the world could surpass,
The blaze of her heart’s ember.

There is no wine as sweet
As her rose kissed lips.
Her body is the envy of angels–they weep
Their jealously spawned our world’s eclipse.

Her playful passive aggression
is reminiscent of a Shakespearean fairy
with flirty eyes, no hesitation
and a fancy for exploration.

She is warm, she is a fire,
Healing those who suffer
And brings a funeral pyre,
To fools, those of ill will and mire.

The seasons change for this bird who flies
Unchained, unfettered,
Whose love resides
In the bloom of spring and snow of December.

Open your eyes!
Those who do not see.
A raven haired queen resides
In the midst of thee.

Summer’s Daisy

Who are you that summer envies you?
The spring winds call you mother;
your eyes the deep of ocean blue;
your hair flaxen as horizon’s cover.

I lose myself in your wonder,
your unspeakably passionate love.
My heart begs for you tender,
a soul that nurtures only heaven’s doves.

A smile that brings the universe in line,
a body that Aphrodite lusts for.
Your soul’s perfection is sublime,
every inch of you, an endless adventure to explore.

I am a young fool, full of mirth,
with a life to live.
You showed me Heaven on earth,
and gave me assurance there is love to give.

Where are the others from whence you came?
Held at Heaven’s Door, let them sing.
For you breath in me life and amaze me,
you are forever and always Summer’s Daisy.


It’s not the time for lover’s kind,
It’s not the place for giver’s grace.
This time … the moments we live in,
Are mere grains of sand on the universe’s golden shore.
Walk we in shadows, dark alleyways,
Whispers like witching whores,
Begging us aside for the devil’s pay.

In these moments of darkness,
I awoke from my slumber–
My days of incumbance–
To the whispers of an angel,
Her voice soft and abundant.

“Come with me, don’t be afraid,
I’ll lead you to the river of life,
Where your head won’t rest with the dead.”

I followed her out of the ally,
The coal and dirt thick on my back.
I looked at the sky above, at the black.
What hell is this? Dare I die?

This angel’s fingertips led me onward,
Flanked by crowds of the unholy kind,
Barking at my ears,
Nipping at my fears,
My soul cried for rest.

I look to see the Emperor ahead wallowing in sorrow,
“Take my hand,” I said, “She leads us free.”
“Begone!” he yelled, “I am black to the marrow.”
He rose his shrived black hand at me,
“Out of this hell, shall you flee.”

The hounds were loosed from the gate,
The angel rushed me with no hesitation.
I had tried to free a man,
Whose soul bathed in damnation.

Through the city we ran,
Across rooftops and towers.
Their cries grew nearer,
Their clubs and sticks waved clearer.

I had been one of them,
And now I wanted to be free.
We came to a wall,
Whose top I could not see.

“Where now Angel?”
My cries fell to deaf ears.
Hope was now fatal.
The crowds drew my tears.

I awoke, bruised and broken,
On a hilltop without a cloud above.
Looking around, no word spoken,
No feeling, no love.

A man from days of old dropped from his stone wall,
Pondering in his bloody robe:
“You too? Your blood did they call?
They lust for it, all over this globe.”

“What?” I asked, rising in the dirt.
“For what do they lust?”
“You chose to be different,
You chose to rise from this dust.
Like those before you,
Slaughtered like cattle
In the world’s game you knew
It would be over, this battle.
As on the blood of Valentine they drew,
Like the warning of a serpent’s rattle,
Their fangs are never through
Devouring those who fail to think as they do.”

Mirth and Dreams

The wind whispers your name to me
In the gentle breezes
That instill thoughts that be
Of those broken pieces.

Hallowed are the vows
You chose to make
In a world of broken choices
Whose morals they forsake.

They’ve built institutions
Of thought and happenstance,
Walls for the uncontrollable,
Silence to stop the dance.

We of flesh must answer
What we crave
Like water from the river
And fog in the haze.

I miss the flavor
Of the daisy petals,
The ocean’s bubbling cover,
The burning kettle.

Billowing from the hearth,
Gliding through my open soul,
I know of the mirth
You give to my heart’s whole.

Narrow is their vision
Amusing, their indecision,
Never knowing our secret thing,
Never living the dream.

Dust of the Earth

He sighed, entering  the house, tumbling his shoes over near the door and loosing up his tie. His pressed collared shirt and pants were slightly wrinkled from the day at the office. He went over to the bar and fixed himself a scotch, taking it out onto the porch. The old wood felt rustic under his feet and the iron railing hot under his hand. Birds were chirping and the sun was still fairly high since it was summer. The liquor had a bite on the way down, but he sipped it gingerly, feeling its calming effect almost immediately. He rubbed his chin, feeling a day’s growth after that morning’s shave and let his eyes droop after half the glass was gone. Everything calmed. The wind rustling the leaves in the trees drew crisp in his ear and the sound of the fountain near the pool below bumbled like a stream in a constant hum of solidarity.

The feelings of “what am I doing with my life?” seemed to pass. Anxiety about paying rent, groceries, aging–all seemed to go away. He knew this special drink was only a sugar pill. Those things that worried him would return … eventually. But not now. Facts are facts: he doesn’t know what to do with his life. He wants to help people … to make a difference in the world … but what can he do when almost the rest of the entire world wants to do the same thing? What sets him apart from it all? What singles him out? How does he think he’ll get anywhere and do what he wants to do when so many other people want to do the same thing?

He takes another long sip.

We’re born. We will die. It’s unavoidable. It fills our history books and surrounds us every day either in our own lives or on the news. And where do we really go? Would it hurt? Holding your breath can be almost unbearable unless you breathe. What happens when you cease to breathe? Are we really just like the dust? What is our mission? Why are we here?

He takes another long sip.

The comfort is … we can take solace in the fact that since the dawn of man, we’ve faced death and tasted death. Dying is a part of life. It’s probably not all bad since so many have gone before us. Will I see her there? On the other side when the Earth and Heavens have passed? Ever since the accident, the fear of this has plagued him. He had seen a glimpse of Death’s ugly face and had been saved from those claws of fate. However, the question still remains.

It had been a love affair–an unholy, medieval romance. She was married and he was young. They knew each other in heart and soul. Eventually a choice had to be made …

A pair of gentle hands reached out him, arousing him from his thoughts. He looked down at those familiar hands and smiled. Her soft lips reached around his ear and whispered sweet nothings, taking a moment to taste the skin of his neck and cheek. He could smell the rum on her breath and it made him shiver. She rose her glass to his and toasted quietly with a little laugh. He intertwined his fingers with hers, feeling her now bare finger. Her large hazel eyes rang like thunder in him and her smile made his heart sigh. He ran his fingers through her dark, wavy hair, letting the texture cradle his drowsy head. He drew breath in her hair, and felt her continue to caress his neck. She kissed him from the collar, up his throat, to his lips. They held each other passionately, savoring the flavor of each other’s lips. Her rapid hot breath caused his head to spin and her hands feverishly exploring his body unbelievably thrilled him. The feeling of her in his arms was completion and touch of her skin a glimpse of heaven.

He takes another long sip.

She’s not there. He stands alone. A cool breeze sends a chill down his back and he battles the gnawing empty feeling inside. His throat swells and he can feel his eyes grow heavy. His body will age and eventually turn to dust. Those feelings can’t be in vain can they? Does love not carry on after Heaven and Earth fall? It must, or what do we have to live for?

A Zombie State of Mind

As a person surrounded by the mundane nature of life: getting up, grooming (if you give a fuck), going to work, working, and coming home, there are moments where you wonder if you’re robot or zombie in life. But all in all you must stop yourself once and a while,  pull out the magnifying glass and take a long look at yourself. Tonight I broke free; I sang. My heart flirted, the alcohol kept coming. I grew into a daze of a romantic flight of whimsy and fantasy. I may be a zombie to this world, but I have a heart of living flesh that guides me to life.