This is no utopia as sure as the rich desire; it is filled with hatreds, the forgeiture of loss, the gains of pride, and the symbolic achievements but little else.
We dance with a skeleton our whole lives and never stop to look the skull in the eyes, where we would see our true selves, born to live and struggle, struggling to die.
And the grand visioon debases itself everytime it includes violence and control. Many here among us have lost the fineries of existence such as happiness, kindness, and respect.
This is an open plea for dignity in the face of death that has intertwined our living. This is an open plea that you stop what you are doing. It is not too late, now is never too late.
Begin to see the stillness in motion and the motion in stillness, how it capitulates itself to our identity and how our identity is based on nothing but laws and potporri for effect.

You who are aflame with wilderness,
did not the city once haunt you
with its utopian scepter used to mark
false distinctions between the human
and the civilized?

We are wonders where we are,
no matter what architecture only some
buildings are marvels and others can barely
stand the guests inside.

Do not go gently into the Ides, for
many a lover perishes his flame in offering
it to a bearer who cannot keep it alive.
And that is where the darkness comes from,
not from hand held stars and their mere
shadows, but from the failure to grip
heat like a gauntlet, these naive
couplings who treat life gingerly like
a small canary.

Be not a coward in the face of parting,
for you have already just gone and
what is before you stands like an
enlightened city; glowing with
cognizance, recognition, and the greater
glory of Love.

One day we will be good,
but this is up to you.
One day we will wander through
the tallow of river weeds and
bask in the cool cold waters
that swirl like magic eddies,
but this too is up to you.

One day we will shine in
luminous repose against the
backdrop of the darkened city
that had a power outage and
all the hospitals became death
beds because their generators failed.
But this too is up to you.

It is up to you to become one day
and travel with me to the cliffs
of the world where artists sit
listlessly, painting square rigged
sailing vessels as they plunge
into the abyss.

It is up to me to help you
as I have helped you in the past
without you even realizing it.
Discovering what that help was
is up to you. It is up to you
to look behind that flabby muscle
they called the heart and to see
if there is anything there, and
you can't let the doctors do it
because this, like everything
else, is up to you, my pale love,
love is up to you.

female and male knights

Oh the scenes we painted on our armour
that hid us in the trees and blended
the city between our crenelated joints
would cause no one any pain while insuring
that we'd never die inside, that our love
transcended oceans and sailed the seas of memory
like errant vessels bothered by no one.

Now you're getting hot in leather straps
that brought you to your knees, we're
a couple of knightly chaps weighed down
by our chivalry, kept light by our golden
levity, and with a thrust of a sword a
kingdom fell like it was plagued with some
terrible disease. but we knew the edges
of our castles couldn't contain the damsels
so we let her walk where she chose and never
locked her in the tower, we, knights of
the holy crossroads where you choose
between life and its imitation.

thematic variations on the old cliche: love, not war

And war shall have no shelter in
the mirrored hallways of the sublime spirit,
nor shall war's dragon enter our palace
doors, for the sun extinguishes wickedness
like a sword of rays, and war shall
be no more.

Love shall have dominion over our pale house
like tender truth drinks in the songs
of solemn spurned loners and blossoms
the feathers of lips into brilliant flight,
aerobatics of sweetness in a
light burnt sky between our ghost shapes
and sweeping Immelmans with the
rose blown wind that dances upon us
like gentle drifts of song.

Do not call war into love, my gentle
friends, for your sugar rots when you
do violence to our birdsong of emotion,
for your seed is scattered when you
throw up your hands to the death of
possibilities and the seasons in your
breast lock in endless winter
when you call down from your tower
wicked commands into the reflecting pond
where you billowed in your first kiss.

how those dead can dance amid the flutes of love

The skeletons danced and their bones burned auburn beneath the orange moon, clacking their jaw bones at a large ribcage drowning in winter ale. The secret scent of myrr composed the elegant twilight with a sensual harmony that regarded the dead as in their proper places. Pale faces kissed beath pink lanterns and eyes glowed with sapphire fire in a lock and key arrangement of outdoor love that lit coffins with light and exposed the graveyard with illumination, where bones rustled like xylophone music over the gleaming sepulchres that couldn't quit love, that couldn't lose the emotion even when the corpses clawed out of masoleums and when drunken morons lay down in shallow graves. Our two lovers names are Eugene and Mona, these two fated to be together, to love despite the world's sadness; these two who had clicked like a sofft tongue noise during a French kiss, these two who had ever been together through were geographically apart, these two who had been divinely married.

ocean themes and lovers scenes

where whispers of the divine eddy
like river whorls upon our sea glass,
we feel like mirrors though we are much
deeper; consumed with atmospheres of
ocean waves and dangled beneath the
currents of tidal pull.

If I am worthy to be your lover,
than I apologize for the rest
that you had to choose from;
they must have been gnarled like
tree branches, exposing their knotted
knucles in dark wood and lacking
the sequence of shade and light that
is so familiar to the worshipers
of our nature.

Do not weep salty tears, there
still are good ones left. There
is one here, one there, a couple
spread around who you encounter
in the middle of the Pacific,
basking like dolphins upon the
wake of your vessel, playing
and jubilant.