And I Will Hold Your Hand

Love. Live. Grow.
The plants' calls are silently vociferous.
Loud expressions of life
shouting with color and scent
and quietly purring from rich earth--

but the sky is less conspicuous:
The pink haze bleaches the black above,
and the brightest stars are the loneliest,
pining for their lost loved ones.
Lost in the lights from the nearby roads.

I wish we could sit content
like the pair of oranges on that tree,
safe with the knowledge they are together--

But I am a bright star,
one of the brightest through that desaturated space.
Looking for my lost
and wondering if you can see me
through the other end of the haze.

Together, we are the brightest stars
but are in different skies.
To be seen and charted
by different philosophers
and named in separate tongues.

Perhaps one day soon,
our very own Babel will be built,
and we will speak together
in the same tongue.
And I will hold your hand.

Sitting in the Last Row on Sunday Morning

ah, the last row
where distraction is frequent
and wandering thoughts are dearest friends
while preachingpointingspitting
goes red with effort
but all i see is that man
with the toupee and smile
at the thought of fishing it away

Observations on the I-10

State Prison
Next Right

Do Not
Pick Up
Hitchhikers

Playing with a Ball of Yarn

We sat in the kitchen
waiting for the next move.
You ate your french vanilla with a spoon
musing over me.
One thought played over in my mind--
You knew.
I nervously bit my lip,
you just smirked and continued spooning
toying with the idea in your head.

We moved like kittens
playful/aggressive, passive/bored.
You were the latter.

You knew what I wanted.
You faltered only once,
leading me to the couch
but promptly corrected the mistake--
the television began to drone.

Our game wouldn't stop itself
and you didn't feel like toying anymore.
I still wanted you,
you wanted time--
letting it happen wasn't the same as wanting it
so lips brushed forehead
shoes found their owners
a car sought the interstate.