I Cannot Have You

I cannot have you through the silt of
history, your soft skin drifting with the tug of tides,

and the sky folds black and in the creased darkness
my longing hands find only warm empty air; they flutter and glide in
the silence of the night, till they tumble into there
private history,

touching phantoms that breathe and leak a bitter
brine sea. and you no longer traveling the line between history
and the sea.

my longing grows thin and transparent
as the air throbs with your absence

and the ghost of my eyes tear the fabric of night
and places you there. my hands swim the darkness
waiting for the memory of skin, waiting for the revolving of
the wheel.

to bring it back around, so that my empty hands
can hold your warmth and the history that your
body whispers,

But I cannot have you.



-----------------------------------

In the syrup of the sun
My eyes warm and stinging
Grow tired of the excursions
The smooth fugue of other voices
Slick trout in an anxious stream
The surface tension only broken
When my eyes drift with the
Current and capture the white of
Crested waves.

In the sticky sun, currents of
Water and shadows, I search
Myself, eyes rolled inward
Into the gray creases and white
Explosions that flow and jump
Under the surface tension
Of aging wrinkled skin


My eyes fall down into
The dust that drifts from
Air, a soft folding desert
Edges and ends smoothed over
blanketed and streaked out,
I forget the twisting of
Clocks and little hands
That grasp and claw gently
Tearing bits of me pulling at the
Dust and letters that capture my name.


The bareness of snow drifts
Undulate into the twirl of
Worlds, and I monochromatic
Reminds me that eyes and
Sight clash, and which is to be
The lure and which to be the snare,
As I unravel in the blister of
Sun.


Through my new squint into
The shine and bright the
squeeze and sting is tolerated
With the new warmth and heated
Shaft.


I still skim along the tension surface
Of the cloying air moving from and to
With no voice to tremble the blue
The steps down the flow that cascades
And falls, barriers from the spawn

The curves and roles green and
Brown, dappled in the drip of
Light, the slake of shadows traps
The eye, and I linger in the current
Treading air and stream as my eyes
Surround the white bubble and froth
That captures, and I wonder the snaps of
Pupils and shut of lids.


The salmon leap, thrash then splash
And spasm in there desperate drive
Breaking water and clime the rushing
Changing stability
Leap after leap to the sluggish
Calm to empty then fade from
Gold to pail and the blinking out.

And I return to spawn the light
To dark to fill the row
And I turn surrounded by the
Flow the ripples and foam slips
By, the current pulls grasps
Loosening my hold on the pebbled
Bottom

The swim and tumble in
Floundering and frantic till
the ticking down and the paling
of eyes and the sticky light
oozes finally out, the rough tumbles
down and I still gaze with shattered
eyes into the swaddling dark
of the least explored, those damp
caves filled with the echoing drip
of desperate stalactites slowly growing
Invisible.

This is the time of water, a day
Of erosion peeling the slicing
Edge, dulling the sharp, piercing
To a dull blunt blade,
And I pendulum down through the
Dark secrets of my self falling beyond
The rivers and lakes running away
Leaking out till my eyes grow
Dry and pail, knowing that I cannot have you

----------------------------------------


My hands long for the warmth of touch.
They hunger for more than sleep in the comfort
Of cloth.

More than the labor of creation, they long to discover
The vast unknown territory of your body.

My hands long to see more than chores and scraping labor
They hunger for the spices of cloves and nutmeg , they dream
Of breathing in the dust of the vanilla of your desire.

My hands long to taste more than prayers and books,
They want to run there lips and tongue down the lines and
Curves of your rolling tenderness and to sup the liquid of your lust

My hands long to taste more than necessity and commitment
They ache and throb for the cool gulp of your hips and the warm
Sting of your thighs

My hands need to consume more than days and distances,
They yearn for the sea of your body to drown themselves in the depth
Of your endless embrace.

My hands long for more than the earth and loam of this world
They dream of he ghosts of thunder that slumbers in your breasts,
They long for the fires that burn and the coals that smolder
In the palms of your hands, but in there longing they know they cannot have you.


--------------------------------------

what is this a sea without shore? no whispering rocks
or lamenting sand to roll and slide along the lip and tongue of water

no legs to open in welcome to find solace in the
wet heat of ocean tides; the sea surges in your hands
fingers knobby thin and bony,

and of strength and compassion that hold the
passion of planets and the light of million spiral stars

in the tips of your hands and you spill your change
into me and my lips blush with the dew of your desire

your hands the breezes that move my sea to rise and
surge and rise again to to drew new hips and lines.

the fruit of wine and eyes dark as desire and as
consuming as the silver phases of the moon.

drawing the sea to its suckling breath, to feed and travel the
the crests of waves and foam and sea and shoreline
the unifying of earth and water.

hips grinding lust and creation as the streak of white caps
glint there passing in the convulsive sea. rubbing stone to nothing
in your slow passing.

and your hands surround me and drew me to your mouth
and in the crucible of the sea your hands hold me until
the final emotion and the sea takes us.

and rubs us to nothing in the lustful grinding of the sea.
and when the tide rolls out, in the salt air the tang
whispers that i cannot have you.

October Country

on the cusp of possibility,
when the rage surges, and only my brittle bones poke through
and i fall limp in your guile, not knowing the face behind the silents

and with that denial i tumble into a painless sleep!!

and through the murk of history
through the shade of the past
from you the same patters,
the same secrets,the same silents.
from me the same dance, the same steps,

and my eyes grasp the smoke and shimmer,
my eyes embrace your mirage, your fear of me seeing,
the fear of me touching
digging into the silt of sorrow and despair,


and peeling away the scabs of time till the
simple ooze speaks the tongue of epiphany.

yet sound brings no light, i am still forbidden to see you.
only your shadows that lurk in the tight constraint of skin.


I gently roll the moment and waves of time, and open
to sallow the tight ball of salt,
the bitter taste that has stung the flesh with fire and putrid breathing.

and this purgatory of October
cuffs my motion through this Halloween country,
and the chill and upheaval lick and gnaws my knuckled fists.

as the bubble of history swells then bursts

and i freeze rooted in the fall of red and orange leaves,
rooted in the earthy aroma of decomposing leaves,
and the sharp tang of drowsy sleep that the earth lingers in

and i find myself with the scent of apples, and pumpkins
and my injured heart hammers with unwanted haunting,
unwanted epiphanies,
and my chest caves as it spasmodically gasps in this air.

and the tremble and vertigo floods the blood,
and again, i taste the salt, the bitter tang of my harvest, and i long for a never returning spring, a warmth sweet and filling
as the sea that i long for on this changeable October morning.

and i sigh, knowing that this salt, this sting of old new wounds, will subside, and slip below the surface.

yet the red and angry scars
remain, tattoos that no rub of time will erase.

and i will master the agonies, i will swallow the sorrow, and move from your time.

diminished, diminished by silents, diminished be illusion, of chunks of flesh lost diminished yet strengthened.
lessons masted, or at least tested.

but October mornings like this
the scent of change carries me beyond myself within my self.
and i taste the salt and breath in the earthy aroma of decay,
and impending slumber.

and i long for the salve for my slow healing wounds,
that a scant moment ago i thought
healed, and vanished

yet this October, this smell of Halloween has touched the hidden ache
that i am doomed to carry
and opened me wide to what i am, and to what i was , and will be.
that there is no change, only fear in your eyes and a unhappiness that taints your skin.

and the dark clouds of impending storms hold my eyes, as body trembles, fearing the fury and rage of the storms that i know will come.

but a deep calm pulls me inward and i know and understand that storms are only storms.

and i can and will endure them, that they in themselves cannot overwhelm me. and alone i will embrace them for what they are, and alone will emerge from this haunted time, this time of ghosts and demons
this time of monsters and ghouls, knowing that they are only costumes specters insubstantial, only costumes meant to scare and frighten.

I will pass through the vial of this Halloween and see the ghosts and monsters for what they are,
and i will travel this haunted land, this season of change i will endure the upheaval and storms of this October.


and in the rub of time reach the equinox and find a moment of renewal