the heart is a traitor to the rest of the self

a lemon slice moon on the rim
of a glass half full of salt tears
that slosh against the craggy contours of a hardened face..

a smoky-sweet kiss from burnt lips

held by paint-spattered fingertips.

and rainbow eyes that drip over a hooked chin to paint his shirt with

hare krishna's and stuttered Shivas.

i stood close to you because i wanted to feel you,
feel what you would feel like.

the herder wears sheep's wool under his hat,
                            God in a prophet's clothing
                                                                  -preaching against preachers, teaching against teachers..

i wanted to touch you,
touch you touching me.

to see if my hands would pass through you like ideas in my brain,

to see if i could grab you
                                       or if you'd run away like my train of thought when i stand near you.

i don't love you, but i'd love to love you,

to see who you are when you're Naked to the world,

i think that's who you are.
who anybody is.

the real self as a Giver or Taker,

Enthusiastic or Reluctant in feeling free.

It's strange to hear

The stunted words,
the hesitant phrasing.

the peaks of a glacier
that melt into a pool of icy regret.


It seeps into the soles of your feet,
sticky soles, rooting you into viscous debates, (or conversation?)

What is it anymore?
Why is it anything?

I wish you would stop talking.