Mottos

Why can't you ever hang around
You always look the other way when I flag you down
This race to understand the physics of my tree-like arms
A profound sense of kinship when I tap the ground
Affinity spires and rubber traits
DNA of clowns jettisoned
By a single drop of salty water
And it travels the length of a long long face
Miles of sadness and mires of grace
All that's left is a trace
A less than malleable space
I forgot about this place in all my haste
Mantras of waste when I try to speak
All I can repeat is the limerick carved so painfully and prettily
Patiently
On the forearm of my lost body

Your heavy handed style
And you oh so lack in guile
It factors disturbingly into the ever-crooked half smile
That sits on your silhouette
A coiled snake in the highest grass
So I perform my snakecharmers song
And pray to the sun I don't get it wrong
You may remain
Entranced
But never tamed for long.

The solar prize
A loss for words
And a need for eyes
I never hope for more than the most fleeting glimpse
Of something so unwillingly on display
When, if it could be so hidden
By a million knives
And a million visions
Of what we've all been so destined to become
Despite all that of our wild tributations, we could venerate
Me and you are so much alike that I stand and shake in the window
And my reflection refuses to follow
Or is it myself that will never justify
Tearing off my limbs to move forward this time
Those limericks and mantras and the formal literature of my soul
Will matter not in the currents of the universal ocean's throne
But to me and the one I can hold
But never quite own.