words

You can
dance with words,
sing with words,
walk with words,
play with words.

You can
laugh,
cry,
yell,
be shy.

You can pretend to be a dragon,
fly with angels,
skip with sunsets
along sandy beaches.

You can do anything
and everything
with words.

If I look
closely,
with my head
pressed to the wooden table,
and if the light
from a warm, April afternoon,
hits us
(me and the wood)
together...

If I look
closely,
I can see myself,
trapped,
in the table,
in the wooden
lines.

My nose
(its faint outline-long and German)

I am there,
if only for an
afternoon moment.

The softness of every summer night,
for the rest of my life,
is expressed
in the way you touch me.
Ever so gently,
ever so quietly,
I feel your breath upon my skin.
I feel a warm summer breeze
as I lie in your bed.
It warms my skin as
you warm my heart.

I will never sleep alone
as long as I love you.
Our love
is bound together
delicately
by interlocked fingers.

We walk together one evening,
and you whisper,
I love you.

I feel the warm breeze again.

My heart beats faster
for you
as the years pass.
We are together on this summer night,
the stars above.
Love
is asleep in our arms,
as we lull and soothe her.
You glance at me, and
I feel the warm breeze again.

Our love cannot be separated
by time, nor distance.
Together we cannot be broken.
We are beautiful, and our love
is strong.

The breeze will always blow
through our hearts,
and whisper our sweet names.

late one night

The real dream begins
when I exit the highway.
I pass reality by
and enter the mind
my heart created.
The music begins,
the blackness begins,
the road begins.

It is three a.m. and dark.
My eyes are heavy, but
I drive home.
I tuck half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to drive.

The radio is what keeps
me sane.
Life seems true, but
the road, the tires, the sleep,
all make me feel crazy;
This being the sanest I have
ever felt.
The music.
It is what keeps my reality
real.

The painted lines
appear and disappear.
Forty miles per hour seems slow.
I seem to be floating through
a dream...my dream?
Am I awake?
Am I still driving?
I know I am driving because
it continues.
Every night it continues.

My car allows me to be
surreal.
My music is the link to
the reality in which I will awake.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Tomorrow will only come
if I make it home.
If I tuck the other half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to sleep,
dream.
Is this a dream?

I swerve and my body clenches.
My eyelids are heavy,
but my eyes are wide.
They stay open as I drive.
The night is black.
The lines are white.
Do I dream in color?
Do I see white lines and
a black night?

I see my marker.
My house will be approaching
soon on the right.
I turn off my engine.
I know I am awake now.
I thank her for gliding
home safely.
I sleep, and I dream.

Rain
begins to fall.
I hold her in my arms.
The cool drops
tickle and dance over warm skin.
Inside,
desire dances.
My body is hot.
Outside,
water beads off our bodies,
and collects on the ground.

I taste her lips,
and feel her warmth
pouring in me.
The tight, wet cotton
sticks to her skin.
I can see the pink
of her nipples.
Our bodies are hard.

We embrace
that evening
as if to never see each other again.
I cannot feel the rain.
I forget how my body feels.
No longer me and her,
but us.

C'est la vie

The sun rises, and there I am,
another moving spec.
The sun is bright,
but it is more light than warm.
The sun is shining and the
birds are singing-
their plot,
laughing their goal.
I go about my day as I would any other;
nothing special about today.
To them, I am
without meaning
without purpose.
Just marching around in rows.

If only they had someone
to look down upon them.

As I get into my truck,
it happens.
A drop falls from the sky
landing on my head.
I feel the warmth and wetness of
the drop.

As I run my fingers through the
jungle of my own hair,
I peer into the sky above me.
I wonder.
Could it have been?
Is it possible?
What are the odds?

As the unfortunate conclusion pours
into my head,
the angry realization flows over my face.

A bird pooped on my head!

"Ces't la vie" the French say.
Well, a bird has obviously never pooped
on the head of a Frenchman.