as if she were plain.

the only women
i’ve ever loved
had souls that were
left open…
like an old refrigerator
door,
or a wild electric
current,
or a window in a lit
december rain.
they let all the world in,
and you could see it in each iris
that all they loved was hidden deep,
for their hearts hid open
behind each insecurity
that slipped through the doors of their eyes.
and i wanted to dig deep, and
bury myself
in their golden grave minds with all
they dreamed and held in silent sigh,
just so i might fertilize their weeded souls,
and hope that the favor would be returned in
words.

bohemia.

i lost a sonnet
as i boarded the evening train to bohemia.
i felt it flee for a short moment, for
i’m not serious enough to feel my own frequency.
i watched it bounce serenely upon the stoops
of dystopia’s iambic architecture. and
looking back on it,
each street i breathed in always ended on the upside,
in a sleek tower sort of way.
so, gone, the doors to the train folded like an eye, and
my imagination delved back into the bottomless
subway train pit of time,
buckled back in, breathing
still
toward the next poem of

Life.

a poem kept safe since ’93.

Thomason,

eyes of blue iron
fixed freely
between
warriors and honest men;
soft heart strung sweetly
there
to mind of fire
behind
brimstone skull
that thinks proud, blooming
like Celtic chrysanthemums,

petal
to
petal,

breathing loud
with war drums drawn around Texas stem;
budding, beautiful, so that
even the sun must bow down,
for our roots ride

Free

like roads unpaved,
trudging toward
the promise land
beyond
the flower’s edge
of
day-break.

the first drop of rain we’ve ever seen still crawls.

we caught the rain when we first looked,
kept it clear until we learned to speak
and distinguish love and hate through
experience. there were clouds stuffed
still, reactions made memories,
perceptions molded too, and we polluted
the first drop of rain we ever knew,
with the many we’ve ever felt, when we
chose to walk
passively into the mortal storm.