down down down

nathan adler
and past masters.

backseat headrests
illuminated by
back-light headlamps and
front bumper headlights.

silhouettes or shadow puppets;
their canvas is my retinas
the light pathway for lost drivers.

they look like two people whispering
or sharing an intimate moment.
close talkers of close words
and merging hearts.

every pure and uncovered body is yours.
a flash of thigh
the speckled covering of velvet hairs,
the observed edge of a forearm
but especially a hand,
but, oh, i know yours well.
no imposter could fool me,
but make a fool of me?

inevitable.

how we die

every night
out in that
great openness, but suffocating encompassing atmosphere
pieces of your essence break off
and trail up into the universe.
they stay connected to you
emotionally, spiritually,
but you never seen them again.
and slowly,
your being deteriorates
bit by bit
and drifts apart
into the vast world.

lately

i wish i could say
that i'd give anything to be with you
that in mindbodyspirit i miss you terribly,
but that would be lying.

truthful speak:
acidic tongue and venomous words;
i hate your fucking guts.

i guess it's good that we are all
one.
that i was misborn
into the wrong species, the wrong planet
the wrong configuration,
entire.

instead i should be native
or perhaps
animal or botanical in nature.
but i think, under terms of perfection
i should exist as a son of the universe,
a galaxy or star or distant nebula.
one singular breath of the
exponentially growing cosmos.
a being so large-
an overseer-
that my only function is
love.