some little downtown bookstore around 10 a.m. a few years removed

from the back of my metal plate

held in my hand that stretches in between these bars

i can see the scratched and dull reflection

of what i now consider nature

a cute idyllic glassy eyed shrine

where the air inside is lit up all amber and gold

a sanctuary within a self imposed prison

a spectacular garden surrounded by ice

... .thurlo.

one… (my love my light)

the mainstream is polluted - hold your nose...
monday morning coffee should always be stronger than the rest of the week.  seriously, there should exist 'the monday blend'.  some limited release concoction that allows freedom to linger in the face of of some bored firing squad.  for, while the shower is still wet and the sun still yawns, the weekend instantly becomes a distant blur and time accelerates head first into merging traffic only to idle in front of a manipulative light.  so forgive me for the bad cholesterol that goes to my head, but taking a moment to dip my a.m. donut into forgotten art will always distort this week day repetitious spin cycle for a few delightfully fragmented moments.  something to bide the time as i wait to lay my soul down, next to my heart.



my love my light

she is in essence
  all seasons green and giving
  chamomile chocolate cream
  soft
  september sunset sweet and warm

she is a heart that dances with grateful colors
  lips that sip like soft framboise fantastic
  eyes like sparkling cinnamon merlot
  bright
  skin as smooth as sun drenched ice

she is herbal smiling smoke
  radiating harmony within
  inviting arms opening without
  fiery
  she is maya angelou proud

strong when the wind will howl
like water when the sky is shy

she is within the dancing amber
she is within the sweetest porter
she is within the fearless rain

she is within me


from the collection 'thaw'…

masque

swimming in the sand
sinking under the moon
watching all the days go by
counting on you to keep the tide from burning my eyes

... .thurlo.

and, but, why

my phone number is an unimportant prime

and

my media access control is beyond a computer deciphered pi

way far out there, beyond any reasonable slick smiled lie

so i quietly listen when my sweat wanders near my eye

i am aware though i know i am not fully awake nor contrite

i know that the government tries to control loose minds

but

i admit that i don't understand nor comprehend fight or flight

it may just not be i - or me - or this skin bag of water that cries
why

my cassette tape is brittle and running dry

while those antiquated dirty heads no longer feign an ocean salty smile

and

while i listen slumped by hidden pain to avoid any personal strife

i dream any dream that doesn't lay by my side

but

i love that my crazy deceptive dog wags its body wild

i dig everything along with everybody under every sky

inherently clinging to their fragile fleeting soon to be forgotten lives

it may just not be i - or me - or this soul that cannot defy

why

... .thurlo.