l e t ' s r u n w i l d

let's run wild

like the kings and queens

we never were

gone mad

succumbed to the horror

of courtly life

to the point where it's better

to knife the guests of honor

than sit through

another knight of

sober revelry

while everyone else

becomes outlandishly drunk

the better to stand

your presence

let's run away

because what can they do,

really?

it's out of their hands

and I'm in yours,

or pretending I may be,

eventually.

if you follow the rhythm

of words you've heard

you'd realize that my

disguise is as coltish

and coy as your own

let's run away,

escape the sentries

by playing shadows

blending, bleeding

right into the

landscape - nightmares

instead of people

living dreams to replace wishes

you've no hand in the design

it's just something my mind

came up with,

a long time before you...

an escape plan

I couldn't put into practice

until now -

I needed a crime

fighting criminal partner

to take my side

and the last audition sucked

so bad

I had almost given up

(you know what that's like, right?)

but sometimes people

slip in last minute

and don't look like much

but have the balls

to back up nothing

make it something

like sewing together

imagined cutouts of air

to make a breeze

or a carefully contained

tsunami

hidden with decorative grins

and bright eyes.

hey - I'm looking for

Blue Eyes

has anyone seen him?

maybe it won't matter in a year or two

(got, but the time between

auditions stretches)

so...are you in line

or hanging off the balcony

waiting for the magic

to get a head start?

no waiting around these parts -

you've got to grab ahold

and strangle all that life

right back into your own

Head down.

put your head down

and tell a story

edged in wonder

backed by tears

make believe

the way children

make love

with words and imagination

and hands

set yourself up to fall--

empty space can catch you

it's not the fall that kills you

it's the realization

harder than packed earth

laced with glass:

if I wake up, this is over

this wasn't meant to last--

you think

but you're not sure, now

you never have been sure, now

so how come you're always making choices

hearing words voice their opinions

star-struck standing on two legs

landing ground canyon

candyland abandoned

tiny todlet trippers say hey, hey

let's play today until you're tired

then--

put your head down

and tell me a story

let's try for a happier end

Oatmeal Cookies.

Making cookies

in the kitchen

to the soft scream

of the heating oven

and the background ball game

on dad's

television.

These are special:

Oatmeal-not-enough-butter.

Justification

My father told me

it was bad luck

to strike a match

and not set something on fire.

I'm afraid of bad luck -

that's why the school

burned down.

Clouds and Rain.

I want to go running

in the rain.

Just sitting here

hearing the gentle drops

isn't nearly enough excitement.

Watching the blacktop

give way

to every tiny touch -

that's hardly enough,

either.

I want the secrets

hidden in the raindrops

to know who hurt them

badly enough that they're

always kissing.

If the clouds above

are monstrous beings

or just weep for what

they are forced to do.

Wouldn't you wonder, too?

What's above that can't be fixed

and what's below that must be kissed?

Twined and twisting

euphemisms

for a peculiar sensation

I don't have words to catch

yet.

I think the rain knows

I suspect something;

droplets kissing ever lighter

on the blacktop

as if aware of the voyeur

peering cautiously out at them

only the boldest

still falling -

as others abandon course

but the clouds above

are still gloomsome

and ratted, frayed on the edges

letting lighter, more frivolous clouds

above look through.

This was written for the first person to claim it.

Broken

I've often wondered

if I know what abuse is like

I'm broken, somehow,

inside

The kind of break that doesn't go away,

even with memory loss

and other internal failures

I have to wonder

what happened

what childhood injury

destroyed my capacity

to feel at ease among equals

Guess.

This is a wild guess

about being caught up

in open air

and what it might feel like

to surrender

Transport

Take me to where you are

I want to be beside you,

watching you sleep.

To run my fingers though

your hair, across your skin.

To look down on you, from

a vantage point just a little

above your bed.

Maybe to be able to put my

arms around you again

the way we did when we

climbed to the top of the world

together.

Before conspirators and get-down-ists

came after us trying to

destroy the mood.

But still!

Something worth recalling.

I want to be where you are,

and I wish...wish that I

were.

I wish I were with you, now,

not because where you are is

better than my green chair and

white-wood desk, or because

where you are has air

conditioning. I wish I were

with you, but not because

the hum of crickets might

lessen, or the growl of

the sleeping fridge vanish.

I wish I were with you,

not to escape the tension

or the time - 3 am leaves far

too much room for exploration -

but because there's business,

still unfinished.

Not quite touched, yet.

Your words, for example.

How confusing you manage to be,

accidentally-on-purpose.

Happy to see...and aggravated,

all in a breath,

mixing the simple elegance

with complexities.

How happy to aggravate.

I think were a little too far

off, at present

and I want to remedy that -

step up to the plate

and swing - blindfolded -

at a ball I'm not even sure

is there.

Almost no chance to hit -

but almost none is slightly

greater than

not swinging at all.

You've confused me

and intrigued me. I want to

learn what you are, now

not just who. Your dancing

doesn't give more than

brief insight - a glimpse

into the mirror while

trying to see the whole of a

house. Everything is...

relative.

I'm afraid to ask if we

can explore this together, but

I find this odd idea in my

mind that I may indeed

need to ask.

Sometime, though.

Not all at once, and not

now. Not yet.

I'm always putting things off that way.

Too soon.

Too quick.

Too...something.

Not yet.

Not. Yet.

Notyetnotyetnotyet -

And then it's gone, vanished

the way glitter does when you kill

the lights.

Out of sight, out of time.

Don't rush away on me.

Sleep...

Well, do you know what I

think?

I think this might have

potential, just because we

don't know, and not

knowing is so much more

interesting.

All the questions he could

ask, without needing to look

too deep, too much.

Too anything.

But I'm afraid, too.

Afraid that - despite

words - I'm not welcome. Not

yet. (Sound familiar? Notyetnotyet

notyet - how about now?)

What I remember best is

falling onto the stage by

mistake and whispered encouragement,

telling me to go do my thing.

And telling myself I

damn well would.

Walking up to you directly,

and wishing I had a

tie, not just a hat...

But Dan's hat looked

aight on you.

Good enough to be

mistaken, anyway.

And then...dancing.

To hoots, hollars and

grand laughter.

That's my real recall.

Our duet, on the other

hand escapes me,

mostly. The fumbles come

to mind - not quite sure

where one is supposed to

bleed into another.

But therein arises another

problem.

I want your hands.

I long for touch and

taste. To be understood in

the flesh, not just mind.

I want the weight of experience

to come crashing in, while

the fervor of youth

accompanies.

I want you to know

(though actually, I don't)

that I imagine what you might

feel like, above me. Touching me.

Since in the dance style you

favor, touching is outlawed,

anathema. A slip-up, fumble.

A problem.

You're supposed to read their

bodies, not control and guide. You

react and respond... Not create

by sheer force.

But still, I'd like to dance

dirty, one time. Just to see

where your hands go -

to my hips, or up. To my

stomach, or below.

Or if you'd hold my hands

and kiss my neck, tongue

tasting sweat-salted skin.

Images too strong and

powerful, sometimes.

I don't want an image to

have such power over me. My

mind knows and bleeds out

my part in events I'd like to

forget... Replaces time

with whatever else could be

constructed out of paper

and cooking oil.

Not making sense, now, but

thats easier to do as four am

wears on. Passing the minutes by with recollections -

almost all faulty - and

hopes - fantasies - for a future.

They told me once that

only a madman makes

his letters different

ways each time.

I look at them and wonder

because every letter is

different.

I think I might be

mad. Oh, wonderful day.

My Guilt

I want my life

to be shimmer -

not glitter and good memories

but the shine

everyone's determined to see

beyond

what's the point of knowing to say you were

right - life sucks?

why not take the present

at face value

and value the faces

that smile your way -

smile first to provoke

a grin.

I dunno why...

I just don't want to know,

sometimes.

maybe some people hate

the willfully ignorant -

but I can't bring myself to

face the fear, some days.

I can't always be brave.

Sometimes I need that

security blanket of ignorance -

of Not Knowing.

I want to be safe -

if you don't hear about

the monsters

why suspect them in

the closet?

completely isolated...where

nothing could touch me

not a vacuum in reality,

just in realization.

a perfect isolation to self.

lonely... but self.

that's my guilt.