(Love to Kill)

Linked to you all by
love and light,
spread thin,
       (while most anticipate spread leg), but
MaBelle is only a voice.
Ten fingers,
(one for each ring-)
each promise to breathe and to sing,
                   to laugh and to lose,
holding out for my humble pie,
watchful eye,
        melodic muse,
           mis-interpreted mother.
(Expectant only in
eagerness to engorge the erudite apostle's
explanation of self.)
Heart song zings- strings
anchor ankle to ankle
the convert and the coveted.
Influence is enough of a (gift) for our
malevolent Moll, to
send the sands surging into the wind,
                to scatter, and
all the while
shading from the sacrificial sun.
Got love to kill.
(Thru-traffic keeps me still.)
Sing me to sleep, it's a
beautiful lie on a tragically vibrant day.
Apple slices sweeten the tongue that
whispers whistles in a dark alley.

(Bird of the Bayou)

oh, sweet serenity, how the deafness falls upon mine ears and creates a dumbfounding darkness. it has been too long since the sound of your chorus has filled these spaces. I pause, poised and prepared to traverse the meadowlands and race V-8, floorboard, forward into the badlands- those streets with no name, rugged and abating. skulking shadows of the firefly lights traipse behind in whispers and giggle while I find myself steadfast in your heart.

Until that gravity plants me imperviously cheek to cheek, I sigh and sing like the bird of the bayou. Idle hands, have I not? They are reaching for any task that can dissuade them from becoming the playthings of a devil of distance. Ice descends upon them, and I am reticent to implore them cessation. Lost in the inter-webs of daydream dialogues, the sun shall soon usurp the clouds, and open before me my pilgrimage.