Fragrance

Purple colors smell of your scent
Fragrant of the closeness of you
Close to me

Kneeling only slightly
Into you and me
As we lie together
alone

Skins of Animals

I wrap myself in the skins of animals
Enfolding me
Keeping me warm
In their Death Shrouds

Sacrificial Lambs
Worn and torn
Wearing thin
As the ages pass

Sheltered until the knife digs deep
Slicing away my skin
So someone else
Might feel my old warmth

Smile in your sleep
As you slumber underneath
My hide and seek hide
Sleeps

I'm Not Famous Yet, but Tomorrow

It feels so good to walk down the street
unimpeded by adoring fans seeking
my visage and signature.
Basking in the glow of my
imagined radiance replete
and supposedly complete.

But some day soon a viral infection
reflecting lack of self reflection
will flashback to me
with a modicum of self introspection
a sectional disconnection from
any intersectionality.

The Manipulative Poor Townsman

I'm a wise man, or so they tell me. I've seen so much evil in my life. The stories I could and often do tell are legion. I try to resist evil, I really do. My personal baggage is the wisdom those around me think they see. Stories. I tell stories. Over and over and over again. In most of them I'm the good guy. It makes sense after all. You'd do the same I'm almost certain. Tales told, or as my student friends and occasional acolytes like to say, "story time with John" is about to happen. That temptation is toxic.

He arrives at the wise man's door, pleading for mercy. And he needs it. God knows he needs it. He has a story to tell the wise man about his suffering. The things that have happened to him over his lifetime are beyond belief, yet all too terribly true. True tales, terribly told to ringing ears willing to hear.