Member Poem

I am not for sale.   I am the whistling of roses.
I am the dragonfly that pollinates a nose full of lilies.
I am so infinitely mine; invisible as air
And heavy as a grain of sand.

I walk between art and life, between man
and his shadow, between conflict and resolution,
Needing only the drowse of daffodils to sustain me.
A penny in my pocket, and a daisy drenching my hair,
I solve philosophical equations that pertain to my
Soul’s jangling individuation—a craftsman, a seer
Of fine things, a rustler of visceral speech… a friend
Beyond all things.  Let me take you there. 
 
Spring is on the doorstep, and I’m covered in rain.
Hardly a man or woman could explain the purpose
Of a season that reinvigorates the fatefully downtrodden.
The moon sips tea with the stars, dressed to kill,
Shedding a corpulent light.  Sitting out here on the grass
I feel the dew begin to propagate, and the wind begin
To whisper tales of drunken vessels and sirens
Of the past. 

The present is gorged with a reality that reeks of
Margaritas and salsa chips.  I am a victim of your atomic
Eyes coupling by the drainpipes of a seedy side-café.
And I hear the trippy tine of natural music dripping down
The gutters—it is the damsel of my domain. It threads
The needle of life with deft ease.  It is a feeling and a flight.
It is a drug of legal proportions.  And to amplify this feeling
Is to know a goddess of this tactile world.

I am not for sale.  And I am not for keeps.  I desire
The silence of a church, and the banter of a festival.  I dream
In the dust of bodegas, and doze in the fog under
A tree conjuring electrical ladies.  And I have heard
The wild horses of mortality whinnying at my back. 
Catch me if you can.  Bring the death cloth when the apple
Has fallen from the tree.  I’ll be there waiting with a cross,
A dream, and a fight.