Cenial [sic]

Traffic makes for cenial days,
dawn at night.

A sunrise's sunset drifts idly
below the surface of light fractures
with reds dampened,
spawning one-way mirrors at twilight:
picturesque diamond dust reflects
like fresh daytime snows below blue,
or dew mists
on smiling Arboretum spring leaves.

Aren't water drops just Escher's eyes?
Doesn't poetry have pleasant
sometimes abstract thighs?

Age old dilemmas revisited:
What came first, dawn or starlight?
(Who came first, mother nature or father time?)

Age old civilizations revisited:
All of our cement lines are our cities veins:
some of these are white lines for the forever vain,
yet anxieties always manage to get the main.

But a day is just a day.
Dawns at night should be
deep breathes and
retreats from lights spites.
Don't except, cenial-- is melting treasures.

To Jes

the silhoette
of a broken heart beats
to the sorrowful windsong
emminating
from the cracks of
"cannot be closed" windows
boiling thoughts
despite a summer's winter
condensing
apon the clouded panes
collecting
into tear drops
trickling down
leaving trails
in the mists
of love.

but you still breathe.
your breath still dances
with the unseen swirls
of the air's landscape
ebbing
with the bittersweet currents
of your hurricane's
close cousin:
a lucid dream
on a fresh, clean
canvas.

Dinner

i think i
imitated away
all notions of real
as i sit eating
imitation, cheap meals

nutella on dry
wheat bread,
why?
feeling cheap
feeling lazy,
has the basics;
this is the "faked it"
dinner.

Lox Bagel

Supposedly,
the bagel
and cream cheese
is an excellent avenue,
street,
boulevard
fucking highway
for smoked salmon,
red onions,
and capers.

This is suppose'ed,
because it is supposed to be
EPIC
yet all to often,
it is a fail bagel
of
food color added,
oceanic confused
farm raised fish,
a disgrace
to greatness.

Sand

these grains
of sand of grains of
sand
draws sand
sand
these grains
draw sand
draw dunes
draw time
these grains
these grains of sand
form beaches
and deserts
sand
in the stained glass
of the sacred
is the sands
draw sands
draw dunes of the lands
grains drifting
inching slowly
these grains
of melting lifeless mountains
of sand
burying our ancients
dispersing their memories
in grains
of sand
in waves
leeching shores
in bombs
from our wars
are sands
are our hands
sifting the lands
these grains
drain through fingers
to land
into the dunes of our hands
becoming our sands
our hands
draw dunes
draw time
these fingers
these fingers of our hands
form love
and make
hands
made the stained glass
of the sacred
with our hands
draw hands
in hands
of comfort
in fingers
through art
in the shake
of peace
are hands
are but fingers
are but sand
are but grains
of the land