Transfusion
I guess you were meant to iron me out, after times of intense ambition, climbing cliffs, goat’s hoofs embedded in solid rock. Games for climbers, persevere up the steep and, I suspect, maybe I got lost in it, and this round has to be the last of that. You must spend all of me, empty my pockets. Imagine our tie as a promise made a while back, of bleeding it all away, and soon to come, the full transfusion. Total hema count anew. After you scrunch me up good, wrung it all out I’ll ask —¿what then? Let’s realize this in exhaustion and pray. A new configuration gurgles down below. On the surface my face sags, my bones hurt. Your hair thins, eyes shot. But we are almost there. Let this be the waiting room, as the last of another Sun year passes outside our window. Wait it out. And when the sky turns reddish and blotchy it is occurring, our next horizon, transfusion, our brand new blood.
Brother’s Soul Recap
He sits with a purpose, Stays without strain, Concise as a butterfly, A star self guided. Perspires soil, but his heart might bring rain, Trickling down, Streaming along clefts. He practices the main performance, Won’t strive for more than this, Repetition his prayer, Renders sweet. And I do believe, His life might be a river, an intricately woven quilt, Sewn-in careful vigilance, Of each and every infant stitch. And his mind might be open A country sown in neat rows, Awaiting the next harvest, Determined, Under combed skies. Brother is sure to reap from the good earth and, Onto the heavens. When his produce stands in orderly heaps, Realised in the fields of labor, Of love.
Familiar Stranger
We don’t know who he is. Some days, a misunderstood prophet, come back from the last days of his trials, when the townspeople wouldn’t listen. Others, an artist taken over by a passion, meaning to write up in a frenzy, unable to stop himself, in some quest against time. ¿Will he reveal the secrets commended? His violin bold drama. Soon after, hands strike the piano keys composing his own pieces, at times morose, later epical. He tiktoks existential, wielding a sword in thought and skill. Hours pass alone, submerged in epochs gone. His world stirs, the timer scrambled. And he claims too much, but we love him still, yearning for a true flame in the midst of so called normality. His mane a shadow over smokey eyes obtuse. His desire ignites sending nuclear blasts up toward the stars and… We’re still asking who he is. https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=UfN8YXAsSh0&feature=share
Commute
Not much is needed, besides good food, select music, and the same unruly road. The 2016 SUV still delivers, though we should at least promise to change her front tires. Soon. Fortunately, our Oxford gray ride is trustworthy, even if she croaks over the dimpled streets of this overgrown city. This morning, your avocado toast soothes with the aroma of sprouted wheat, and my coffee seethes in its metal thermos. But before digging in, you roamed my paid subscription to Spotify and decided to try our luck with an album we haven’t heard yet. It might be a good one. We are a curious pair, of tired city dwellers, commuting each day in hope and determination, that these repetitions will bear fruit for your future. Resolve has become invisible, we feel compelled. ¿Is it the strange working of destiny that makes us travel the twists and crannies of the urban sprawl? The SUV sails among a potpourri of vehicles and trailers, making their own ways, detached from our cause. You bite into the golden toast with certainty. I’ll take that as a good omen after a much needed swig. The piping hot brew disseminates hope. This is our ritual. You illustrate, without intending to, how it is to be so young, gambling on a road with few guarantees. You make me recall. I also used to love toast in the morning and looked out the window as I commuted to school. The city’s corners, its sequestered neighborhoods, populated by gamblers of life, watch us roll by. We loved the album, turned out your selected artist was a darn good songwriter. If it weren’t for you I’d never have known, that’s the thing. We are commuters compelled by shared destinies, travelers, and our road in company already contains the secret password, the lucky charm, your future behind the muddled housing. Soon, I see variegated meadows stretching ahead. Oxford gray roads meld into a new portrait. Our SUV is now venturing into crisp, new territory, the city left behind. Cows graze comforted, green is the guiding color, just as you finish the last of your avo toast.
Ballet Examination
In this room of light diffused Planks beaten by plies and tendus No leeway is given for pretense In space consecrated. Hands reach for the barre Religiously No piece of attire to cover misalignment Any lack in the labors of time. Soon, toe shoes rub in the rosin And left are minuscule splinters Shimmering in the grain. Breath keeps sheltered In the powerhouse chamber Near the heart While gracile turn out of legs extends in synchrony. No false jumps are possible For we would notice stiff landings, A dry thump, Instead, deep plies absorb landings Muffled into sweet sap spilling Soft caramel tendons No sequence improvised Nor a move accidental Arms never let to rest Each finger engaged In the gaze towards the corner Dancers envision eternity And each of them knows what comes next. Exertion is a secret to most Feet embrace the wooden floors scathed with love Buns tightened Ribbons tucked neatly A ritual ceremony unquestioned. The invisible deity that is art Her little servants nearly out of breath Won’t show it They’ll keep going Personified as dance Offering disciplined bodies To rejoice our earthly manifestation.
Unapologetic
Today Marianne’s jeans fit tight. Reflected on the bedroom mirror Her rounded face announces A waxing moon Her swollen figure rising waters Plump transmutation of phases Compels time for curves Unapologetic Aphrodite above Smiles like cotton candy Remembering the soft babble Of Marianne’s natal baby talk A young brook in her throat When Taurus in the horizon Oceans will wash over generous Convex skin to be embellished In foamy fur From thighs to hips Up the buxom breast Around a venusian belly Still shy Marianne seems vexed But the moon asks for a day or two That she might be heard Through the curved shadows Of a summer night When her light summons Girl almost a woman Close the bedroom door Liberate Aphrodites thighs Under the moon’s plea Let her breasts down free When tides are playful And your imperious belly Full of promise Will claim her power Unapologetic.