Swirling Prayer

These glottal days of sadness
where tears sting like wasps
and liquify the heart,

are the unyielding vendors of love.

We do not waffle in sobs,
nor resist the delight
of unexpected belly laughs
wedged against deep despair
and desire.

The inflection of the heart
is not to be manipulated by man's will,
but, instead sacrificed
in the low, and nearly silent chant
of the soul
in dizzy, swirling
prayer.

Another Paradise

A posse of formic creatures
crawls at my feet.

It is spring and the broadcast
threatens to annul the long winter
with sun and fifty degrees.

That long, cold proxy of real life
is nearly gone,

like the snow that leeches past the frost
into the brown sod that will soon
become another paradise.

April Fool

On a day where I am determined to repossess
all the days I have lost
to events or attitudes
where mildew would gladly
take residence,

I am chilly and want to lance
the illness under my skin
so that decompression from the world
releases into ease.

I am encouraged to malinger
and let the world pass by
in all the hurry and hustle of the mind.

Let me pull the covers over my head
and sink into the luxury of sleep.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and push the snooze alarm for hours.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and ignore all the ruckus
for just one peaceful day alone.

No one the wiser
for this April fool.

Biting the Hand

I have a penchant to love
what cannot be loved
with my heart awake and open.

God plumbs a line
from heaven to that beacon
in a spiral formation
and whispers, "Love your neighbor."

I can't help myself as I stoop
to gather the dirty and tired
withers of the unloved;
of the lost,
to my breast,

forgetting sometimes
that cornered and untrained souls
are prone to bite
even the kindest hand.

In the Dream

In this dream I don't want to dream
there is a noose
loose around my neck
and the devil teases,

attempts to palliate the situation
playing footsie with feet;
squirming just inches above the chair
on which I stand.

My throat is sour as vinegar
just thinking of this dream I don't want to have,
a pill caught, dry in my esophagus
and I choke

waiting for catastrophe
to fall.

In this dream I don't want to dream
there is a dagger in my hand,
damp with crimson and poised
at my vulnerable wrist.

The devil whispers
sweet nothings about wanting more
and offering so little it is embarrassing
to even consider what he says,

and yet there is something promising
about nothing in a dream
about nothing.