-the doors


so limited i am in
my own insanity.
i am a desperate sheperd
in between the jazz of midnight
and your eyes that have
their magic, some beginning
i can't quite imagine,
given to me without asking.
we define romance with
broken thumbs that touch
each other's hearts the way
a guitar's riff splits our ribs
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
i once heard jimi on the way home
and suddenly forgot myself,
remembered you in all your
found tragedy...the dead in all
there purported media.
the children are crying for
our encore baby...we have to
move from skin to kin,
mother nature's accessory is
all she wanted, to know we cared
beyond our daily zombie run.
simple sympathy is,
to turn away from
to call it a damn shame,
the way of the world,
out of our hands,
we had nothing to do with
those tears.
as gently as the world spins
guides our existence
to the very tip of some
equatorial line untouched,
i can only think
we are worth more than
a memory. we are the dividing line
between meaning and meaninglessness.
if us does not make it,
love will die.
and all we'll have is
you and i,
separate, a song without
chorus, a night void
of stars, a morning
losing constantly
the hope of tommorrow.
i ponder time in
the infinite backlight
of your eyes and wonder
what forever is made of.
***********************************

myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings