Skin plastered against tattered holes
of a torn blanket.
Rough threads of
unwoven time
scratching against frozen thighs
She sighs, glancing beyond
a shoulder tucked close to
heart
beyond the cold
frosted window she see nothing
nothing at all

Fingers caress
these holes, torn,
of this blanket, worn;
She threads time
like a shoulder tucked
close to the heart,
the start of nothing
at all

The moon collapsed over horizons split
shattered space in
illuminating mysterious truths
as time melts
answers hang above broken canopies
towering conceptions move as the rabbit
dances
feet wrapped in dew fed grass
energy from within
fleeting realities in a world
undefined

I misread your
canopies as
cantaloupes -
misconceptions,
indeed — yet, if
one believes that
one reads with intent,
then the fruit
as moon may still
have been time,
well spent
:)

fingers lay bare
ripping flesh
of a once shared cantaloupe
now seeds spread
a gelatinous mess
in only one hand
viscid vicissitudes
drip from the mouth

half untouched
slices of
memories of time
unspent
he licks
fingers…

Spit the seeds
into soil, use your
toes to plant
the stars,
this softening
touch of sound,
from mouth to
ground,
for some of these
meteors fall
their way up

touch of sound
tossed abound into
vacuums of space
softening tenors
hiding a blazed fate
seeking to knock,
knock on Nebula's gate
Our eternal seed
unlocking the graveyard of the sun
or nurseries collapsing
in on life?

We found the Gate
too late — sadly,
our fate …

#smallpoems (Expanse connections?)

Doors and corners
of time unfold to
envelop realities
as two specks
drawn together
collapse inward
driving
their energy apart
so they stay
frosted windows, dew covered
toes
carried together, forever separated
on the winds of a fallen star

The ink door, folded
in the paper corner, folded
in the word floor,
- nothing
more is more
mystery than that
- this poem’s engine
still pushes for even more

They drew
within
two meteors
escaping the well
reborn in clouds
to have passion
drive apart


The frost on the window
the dew in the grass
time marches
as space collapses
life folded
like a Liu Cixin novel
new engines
always

Long we spent
on exploration
for the remains
of the meteorite

broken upon
entry and scattered
among the ruins
of this writing

the forest hides
the trees, the dust
we may never see

still, we wander
in search of
the stories

in hysteria of historia
meteors fall up
bent realities in
might of flight
escape the well
no meteorite
no broken shell
matter finite
stories ensconced
in quarries
of vacuum
bound by nature's
response
an eternity
together
flying apart

Light bends, too,
like justice,
every color becoming
one before breaking
back apart - the heart
understands

In this color of sound
incandescent notes
vibrate on

the neck of
    nothingness

for music crawls out
from spaces between notes
harmony driven from source
collapsing on the event horizon
of their souls

The gaps and space
play music
you can only hear
when you listen

its incandescent
notes glisten
with possibilities

the poems you wrote
the stories you found
the songs you sing

emerge as one as
harmonic convergence
points on the horizon

waves lifted
through murky
haze
sounds sifted as
time shaves
notes sinking
afloat
simple misery of happiness
Metronome just gets louder
as the beat is lost
night never rising
over the horizon
sun
succumbs
lost in a second act

Steady,

goes this
metronome -
the pulsing beat
of home

we watch
the arm swing
back and forth

and back again,
and back again
back
again
back

these poems
of great
unknown

the broken glances
and incessant sounds of
Maelzel’s stolen curse
no longer provide shelter
Order lost
Selective tones seek escape
of rhythm
 and rhyme
an Object to Be Destroyed
reconfigured in time
back
and back again,

A song like this,
deconstructed,
becomes little more
than spare parts
— broken notes,
tangled keys, half
harmonies, misshapen
melodies - we gather
what’s left - we,
the mechanics
of muse --and whistle
the tune back into the wind
to let it sing again