The Airway

The airway   spilts—
Motioning the
Inhale,
Exhale,
Of jet-engine lungs.

It’s the atmosphere,
We breathe,
And each stitch,
And each seam,
That keeps the
Slip-stream,
But altitude feels
Precipitous
When descending,
Lungs dissenting,
And air falling so fast
You can’t breathe.

It’s, so often,
The vessel,
Not the heart,
That holds each part;
Oxygenation, then,
Subjugation,
Altogether in sync,
Until the bodies at brink
Of    splitting—
Starting from the inside,
Then out,
Like soulful mutiny,
When it seems we’ve all
Flown too close to the sun.

This end is all things,
And all things this end:
Falling, tearing, grasping;
Dancing that sideways spiral
From a half-opened cock-pit,
Burdened by breathing
Of flame ridden lungs,
And the aching motion
Of ceiling, floor,
Ceiling, floor,
Until the Earth is near,
And in one magnificent
Flame the breathing stops,
And there is
Silence.

The Tempest

Was the tempest drunk on sixty proof
passion when the bottles sank, and moonshine
chivalry gave the place a rose-colored glass
to keep its eyes obsessed?

Was it all yeast induced dreams
on the breaths and poisoned cheers
to the glasses half anywhere?

I wonder because the night
feels burnt of memories:
those kept now in cellars where
the kegs wait years to be uncovered.

By then, the feel is fermented;
bubbled away into unassailable vapors
where clouds once drifted as oceans,
and spoke of the tempest that stormed
its way through the drunken hearts of sober minds.

And each time, hungover, in this dialect
of yearning and letting go,
I kiss the dawn away, and sleep
through a shot of bombastic heart-ache.

When the dusk arrives,
and the inorganic moonshine
gives way to the enchantment
of the real thing, I again look out
and hear the tempest
calling the heart to slumber—
drunk on something different.

Moments

One day
until the next
draws, and forever
a day
to find its end.

So soon
the moment breathes
its last:
time,
the weathered ship,
now past.

Sweet moment,
I was you;
an eclipse
breached on horizons
of wilted flowers
and human lips.

Taken in
at once,
and taken back–
sweet moment: adieu.
And though it seems
the end is near,
it’s all
I ever knew.