Just One Drink


Purity in the compass
as pointed as heart strings,
pure and clean:
eyes locked like gold,
metallic sheen;
eyes locked like gold,
stronger than one can dream.

Endured these hours
of lonely restlessness,
but this bar is rich
with the drink of luck,
rich in compassion,
sippable perfume,
delicate fragrance swallowed as
one entered the room.

Lovers, in time, shall consume,
playful conversation shall resume,
for the compass, love, found us soon.

“And love it shall be one day,”
spoken quietly at night close.


Life with a twist
of poetic justice,
mauled by conscious
decisions that sent me to
the grounds of goodwill,
entering to the drumming
of my chest plate,
coming towards the
no-turning-back rhythm;
the music plays the
same, with words
of my own.


Mother Nature knew our tendencies. She broke apart earthly grounds and spread them to slow our fury. We discovered waters and built boats. Upon our travels, we discovered our ancestors and we feared them for the differences distance had created. We constructed bows out of this fear. We had marveled at science and soon, our fears, found ways to destroy. In this, We discovered skies and built planes. We dropped bombs to vanquish darker fears. From this nuclear destruction, Mother Nature began to weep. We find ways to silence the cries in politics and religion. Our tendencies are not of our Mother, they are built in flesh and mortar.


It’s funny how times ties a knot,
not too strong and not too tight,
even to light a sarcastic sprite
into fables of times long gone, long ago.
He marveled at the concept
of corresponding conclusions
with space and travel, Lewis and Clark,
and amusement parks,
embarking on steeples hidden beneath never –
where the weather was not fair.
His string of thoughts
somehow tied it all together,
when the occurrences themselves
wore him thin.


When your hands
migrate to a more
suitable location,
I’ll discover the
veined paths
flowing to your core;
the collection of stones
pressing from your neck
down your back. Locating.

I want to press against
the burning coals,
let it burn, embrace the
skeletons dancing
to earn back flesh.
Making our way
from lovers paradise
to the spit of passion.


How divine
to fit your name in mine,
but, in the sense of the modern era,
how splendid to have them hand-in-hand –
parting off into equal parts,
no longer nuisanced by time.
Even better,
what if we rid the names
and make “eye-bats”
the new calling card?
Or, we can follow the trivial trends,
finding every item around us
as a nickname,
similar to the creative nature
children pursue
when attempting to swear.
Somehow the title
always usurps the product,
but our tendency is
to know who stole your heart:
in that case, I will need a name.