cremation blues...

shame shrouds the silhouetted labyrinth of longing,
cloaking all avenues of relief,
revoking any residue of rescue...
the lies and betrayals line the pyre
soon to be memory’s charred embers
denying the essence...
the truth of any moment we shared
built upon fabrication and fantasy
in the urgency of constructing perfection...

as the fire of your anger consumes layer upon layer,
thin filaments of love float away
higher and higher caught in the upheaval
of heat and turmoil pushing the
accusations over the top, boiling out into
an atmosphere where infected
hate breeds its intolerance and spits out
the contempt left at its core...
a sinister stump of insurmountable detestation

the death of trust breeds loneliness;
the rust of exposure that erodes
adoration and love into serial suspicion;
no one returns whole from the
ceremony of disavowal where deafness rules
without arms of forgiveness...
where the only path allows for one alone to tread
back to the beginning...
standing alone in denegation and degradation...

the cavern deepens with each step;
until the firmament gives way under the weight...
i shift trying to see the lines you drew;
but the tears blur my vision and i am lost,
no longer able to discern the Truth you outlined...
my heart only harkens to the love
that connected me to you, now blackened,
tarnished and hardened in the furnace blast
of the hatred fueling this cremation...

cremation blues...
ja allen
prism gates....

killing me softly...

in the background strumming softly, fingers grasping,
caressing the slender neck of his instrument...
he slides his hand up and down, bending the fret,
eyes closed tightly, anticipating that exact moment

when he hits the sweetest spot, allowing its quiet vibration
to sink in - underscoring mood;
hesitating to let the feeling go...
knowing he can never recapture it exactly
the same way again - tantalized by the plaintive note...

she watches his tender mouth - the way his lips part
as he reaches the chord’s climax,
mouthing words under his breath over and over
in rhythm to the internal cadence he feels...

beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he bends
toward the strings, plucking them separately
for a moment inside the soft drum beat and acoustical rhythm...
she waits for the moment when he lifts his almond eyes
to find her watching him make love to her with his music...

his gaze sweeps the cavernous room, observing
but not absorbing pulsating pressures
igniting the flames of passion and pleasure as the piercing
note floats like a roar over the forest floor...

the baritone begs for mercy and release as the
bass pleads for more in a cresting crescendo
with bodies writhing and spinning inside the rhythm
entwined in each others arms waiting...
the lone note slowly subsides as he stops the vibration...

the crowd erupts with applause when the soft melody moves
to the fore - over-arching the electric moment
stilled but not forgotten as connoisseurs stir in chairs
restless, anticipating another high...

he moves back into position, finding a rhythm fragment
he molds into his own carrying it forward
swaying gently, caressing her neck again softly,
his fingers finding corners and curves
making his way up and down the steps of the movement....

killing me softly with his song
ja allen

dead roses...

i think of the words you left me…
i imagine what they meant
coiled inside dead roses, black linen
innuendo curling the edges…
the acidic moisture of your tongue
clipping each syllable…
how you hate what i lack in
substance, surfeit, sensuality…
as you imagine i harbor my center,
keeping you forever adrift
denying you what you seek most in me…

the denouement is silence, a deadly void…
no retribution, no accusations;
vapor over pyres steaming in cold repression,
hissing half-truths hurled from on high.
petals of love once caressing, wrapping us
in secret harmony
turned poisonous, each syllable a psychic prick
exposing jealous asides
as we turn our backs on each other and wait
for the other to return,
knowing the inevitability of never…

love is fragile, beheaded blossoms
bleeding layers of loss,
pressed and pasted inside tissued tiers…
broken promises boxed,
set aside but never examined for shadows,
retching rejection in plastic bottles;
death of dreams and passion acknowledged
packed in trunks – put away…
yet anxiety lingers like left-over aroma,
perfumed saga of madness
in the unending aftermath of denial…

dead roses
by ja allen
prism gates

death throes...

when i look deep into your eyes i see my reflection...
rain streams down the window panes,
wishing away desire…
grief haunts the shadows of your face
as you bend over me,
my tears merely a memory imprint…

slowly you slide the pillow
over my face,
pressing down gently but firmly…
murmurs that i love you
remain repressed and internal…
stilled in the vacuum of your intent…

my empty arms seek to encompass you…
my lips long to kiss you
and whisper darling – as always…
but you do not relinquish;
you press down again and again…
never releasing me from your iron grip

i sink further – my struggles lessen…
i cannot counter the ceaseless pressure
that leaves me muted, unrealized…
my mind cries out for succor
realizing that i do not wish to die…
crucified by your calculated detachment…

i love you with unlimited devotion…
i crave the heat of your passion and the
depth of your need – i wove the fabric of our longing
into this mythical quilt covering us,
allowing the exploration of our blended souls…
you are my eternal heaven, my soul mate…

yet you will this premature death for lack of feeling –
the sensation of touch;
you abandon eternal affirmation and commitment
seeking perfection in another form…
in one you can hold and cleave to;
replacing salvation with sensuality…

nothing will supplant my love for you…as
long as you live the sun will forever fail to
warm your blood and heat your inestimable passion
like the dead love you hold at arm’s length…

death throes
prism gates
ja allen

metamorphosis...

this is what i crawled for -
like a bloated reptile
toward birth?
through days of submerged sun
with no lengthy shadows to lead me;
an inky lizard tracing my lineage
through the maze, running
along trails of ice and scorn…

bumping into waxed walls cemented with hurt and denial
sealed off from memory and reconciliation
without an echo or a crack to breathe,
blinded from refracted doubt;
the chills of pain seemed unbearable…
soft-souled men with cleavers hacked at me
as i passed through sacred and scarred corridors,
my head tucked carefully under my rude appendage…

their sharp tongues bled with words
dropping like spite around me,
running down my back and into my shoes;
but i gather them quickly and stuffed them
under my webbed wing…
the great tar and feather tracks
mark my passing….

and for what? to be borne? to bear my realization?
a transparent film i ripped from reason…
all this to see through my past
and gather my own after birth?
the blood in my shoes is my own now…
i need follow no one’s footsteps;
i leave this age, an anachronism,
born of betters,
evolved to extinction…

the wagging tongues are silent now,
the cave of my passing sealed
like my lips…no one shall follow me…
none haunt me nor question my sanity;
aloft on the wings of my back…
memory melts in flight…

metamorphosis
soliloquies
ja allen

failure in the fifh...

once the storied seal was severed;
the floodgates released;
a penitent soul began combing
wreckage for her lost mind
whose trek toward normalcy halted when
the last sane script aborted.
beyond the windswept shore,
beneath the carrion skull,
she wept as you handed her the final ultimatum
with her head locked in place,
eyes downcast, diverted
afraid to meet yours…

the ebony eagle eyed her white, white skin
transparent within sheltered coves
covered with windblown sand and ash.
her naked frame shivered in dread as
she awaited annihilation – banishment from
the kangaroo kingdom…
age marbled her mind and grayed
her sallow features…her concave chest heaved
with each sharp intake of toxic air…
the poisoned gasp of unrelieved anxiety;
she awaited your final words…
finally recognizing them as you spit them at her,
“you have proven to be unworthy…”

the words pierced like knives and severed her soul…
pointing your rigid finger, you twisted the point
in deep, relishing the intense pain revealed
in her quivering mouth and wet eyes
“you disgust me with your needs,
your desires, your constant whining
about love and tomorrow when you
know nothing about either…
your body is imperfect, your mind is
specious, you mean nothing to me…”
with that you grabbed her hair and dragged
her to the exit and shoved her outside;
she tripped and fell on jagged rocks;
her hands and her knees began to bleed
as she got to her feet and looked back
she expected to see you staring at her with your dead eyes…

but you were not there…you’d turned into stone,
black and lustrous set against the raging sea;
the ocean spray foamed around you as swirling
eddies pulled you loose, your large bulk finally
sinking under the weight of your convictions…

failure in the fifth
prism gates
ja allen

love seasons...

you allow me inside to share your art
sealed within subtle shades of you…
stainless mesh alongside serrated and lethal knives;
bountiful counters and wooden accoutrements…
there is steam, heat and hearty conversation
as you wield words as carefully as
you carve and chop against the grain…
i listen to each word, examining it
for hidden meaning,
innuendo or surprise…
but there is little subterfuge—
just careful honesty and
cautious optimism…

as i observe your painstaking preparations,
your slow and hesitant advances toward me,
always sensitive, yet, unendingly sensual,
i find my capacity to trust enlarge,
sensing a depth never felt before
inside your invitation to partake…
often i feel consumed by my feelings for you…
stilled and silenced by my need to be with you—
at times filled with desperate longing and dreams of endless
kisses and nights nestled in your arms…
within the confines of our narrow world,
no one could love you more…
i realize this longing is mine alone …
that i cannot fathom your secret soul or your
grasp of this fragile reality…

if i discover that i shall never belong in your world
or any sphere that matters to the heart…
then this last door will be closed forever…
the interim is marked with pain and uncertainty
as i await the inevitable;
anticipating the slow silence piercing the intimacy of our
diluted conversation
as you defy the rhythm of our dance and override
my love with caution…
will your inexplicable movement usher me
toward the exit?
out into the cold where the biting wind
chills the blood on my lips…
or will you take me inside and let me
sit at your table forever?

love seasons
prism gates
by ja allen

Judgment

She balks at the doorway hesitant to enter,
Clinging to the rapacious rope
As her hand revisits undulations between each tiny knot…
She worries the surface of the hemp ring,
Her fingers dancing over the uneven strings wet with sweat…

Awfully assembled are ultraistic men who dare her to enter
Where they can edit her slow motion pirouette
Above distinct lines coalesced within subtle shades of hazel and henna;
The pain is distant and mythically muted while the dance
Continues even as uneven music convulses in the background…

She resists the orderly, who grasped her tangled hair,
Pulling her forward toward the spotlight
Fixed on the center point where blind edges converge
Slicing the image from stem to stern
In equal parts portioning the layers of guilt between
Extreme enigmatic vestibules…

In their eyes she senses clarion conviction shattering her assurity
As they fixedly watch her unwind,
The counter clockwise spirals slowing until the moment
Stands still and they step toward her…
Each taking her in a ritualistic embrace; holding tight,
Circling the clinical space in rapid succession…

One after another flashing through the pinpoint glare
Staring into her unblinking eyes,
Forcing the satiated silk around her knees,
Parsing her sighs and mumbled innuendos,
Her holistic hyperbole and annexed anxiety
Probing the intensity of her need
Against the backdrop of languid fulfillment
In the wretched twists and turns
On the placated platinum floor…

They gather the limp body and place her content
Upon a cynical platform labeled salvation,
Tempered by a momentary posture of grace…
As flames leap to the heavens
She takes her final bow, spinning quietly,
Twisting away from the intense heat…

Judgment
Prism Gates
JA Allen

Sometimes...

Sometimes I need to still your rage,
Your petulant annoyance and hurt feelings
By placing my mouth over yours, kissing you
Until you forgive the irritation that drove
Your anger to this frenzied pitch…

Sometimes in the midst of our quarrel I would love
To reach over and take your hand and kiss
Each of your fingertips, all the while staring deeply into your eyes,
Watching for a signal of softening;
An ultimate plea for deep and abiding love…

Sometimes when you make me feel a failure
Because I have not lived up to your expectations,
I want to press my body up against yours and hug you
So tightly that we become one against the darkness
We weave around each other…

Sometimes at night when my loneliness engulfs me
And leaves me weak with anguish,
I long to feel you lying next to me, breathing softly
Against my neck with your arms caressing
Me and your hands traversing my body
Until I turn to face you and wait while you
Come to me and kiss away my tears again and again until the soft light begins
To filter through the liquid shades of dawn…

This love I feel for you is stronger than all the words I possess…
And words are my pride and my power;
But there are times when they fail me juxtaposed against the
Magnitude of this love…this disquieting and demanding love
That is slowly eating me alive while I remain
Powerless to explain it or stop its progression…

My only hope is that it shall be reciprocated – that
It shall be returned to me in equal measure;
Given that remote possibility I cling to hope like
Paint to canvass…
Like a child to his mother’s breast…
Like dewdrops to early morning grass…
I need to believe that the quiver in my soul
At the thought of loving you
Vibrates in harmony with your intense
And growing need for me…

Sometimes…
Prism Gates
By JA Allen

jezebel...

i voided the room…
blank photos barren of face or form;
white-draped paintings complementing colorless walls
stripped bare of essence, of expectation…
emptied of emotion
within echoing silence…no music, no voices, no weeping…
a clock’s faint ticking notes the passing…

surfaces are clean, cleared of clutter and concern…
sterile, starched and solitary,
lying face down with hands lashed to Birdseye posts…
no touching allowed.
no sighs, no abject and self-effacing apologies…
no humiliation…
no pleas for love…
negation – nothing – nullified…

sinking into soft denial and denigration,
where betrayal flutters eyelids and postures
with paralyzing pain and soul-wrenching sarcasm…
she laughs at me
hands on her hips, slapping her knee...
“fool,” she scoffs, “you deserve this, again…”

“he loved me,” i whisper…
”he said he would love me forever.”
“which meant what?” she demands…”six weeks?
look at you now…you are lacerated, ground glass.”
“but he promised!” i scream…
“they all do,” she sighs…”when will you learn?
they cannot love you…”
she taps her forehead meaningfully,
gesturing for me to follow her

now sliding into silky soft recesses where
she leads me; i follow a pattern of concentric circles
ever tighter – growing smaller and smaller
until like the pain of memory and loss,
i slip away…
forlorn and forgotten

she will never forgive my love;
she never has…

jezebel…
prism gates...
ja allen

dream lover...

the specter coalesces on the surface of my dream;
willing me to surrender…
i sink inside steamy walls where you wait…
you take her hand and pull her toward you;
embracing her, kissing her passionately but
i feel nothing because it is a dream…

i stare as you make love to her and the emptiness
washes over me, stilling my heart and
relegating my senses to absence…
feeling nothing when
desire trembles in every extremity and explodes at each movement…
but dead embers
never feel want or stir tender passion…

features remain indistinct – unrefined…blurred
as you attempt serial connection…
for i never see into your eyes or feel
the warmth of your mouth on mine –
or feel the touch of your hand upon my cheek…

i know your words, your thoughts;
i hear your sighs and your unending silence…
i listen to your concerns, your desires—your
memories of lost loves…

while i remain a shadow who adores you
bartering for your attention,
waiting, always waiting for a sign of love…
an imperceptible nod of acquiescence,
a bend in your relentless resistance…

the specter arouses from his slumber,
shudders imperceptibly,
grabbing my shoulders and pointing to my left
where all the lost loves smile and nod…
amused by my sudden shock…

he beckons me to take my place at the end
of the long line…
as they shift to make space, i blink back tears
realizing the quixotic twist
of this agonized long-lost love affair…

dream lover...

prism gates

ja allen

gabriel...

the blast blew me into yesterday
destroying the delicate hold on my fabric of existence…
annihilating intricate bonds of lucidity and love,
while Gabriel trumpeted my return in wretched exact trills…
his jewel encrusted mouth wailing a torturous, wrenching, guttural agony…
exacting broken bones and bitter bile…

i spit my teeth into my hands and watch my eyes disintegrate
as slowly I sense an exit from the grayest of avenues…
saturated in blood and broken by betrayal, I journey here to die…
as I have each time…for the same reason…
the end of days has returned again sooner than expected
with violence as its method of operation…

it resides within me stronger than before – the garrisoned
grasp that blended beauty strong for a moment—
that positioned passion for realization and promise for awakening…
but the broker bargained too late, asking too much for so little…
the negotiations turned sour and died on the table without arbitrage,
in the final analysis only pity was offered…

it was put out quietly on a paper plate, shoved under the door
without a sound…just a whisper of doubt as each minute
ticked away in seclusion under the wary eye of expectation, waiting
always waiting and watching;
finally recognizing the pattern of destruction filling in the final
formation as the truth revealed its presence.

its cryptic cruelties bit deep into my heart, causing seizures of
pronounced colorless residual anxiety….
brokered bottom line exaggerates the essence of loss…
jagged with ragged edges and pointed rejections;
for the end result is banishment and betrayal…
the gag of universal truth…

once again a prisoner of the end game…
bastion broken by bigots who careened the carrier
and jettisoned hope and promise for the sake of normalcy;
i am not there for you – to incorporate into ordinary dreams;
i cannot exist there for you only here deep inside where senses
translate into surreal dreams of love and longing…

gabriel
prism gates
by ja allen

pedestrian...

it could not be stated otherwise
than awkwardly,
cumbersome, listless and distorted…
wedged like a tumor
in this microscopic space.
the feeling is too large for words;
pain will not be defined,
honed or cured…
it lies like fear on the extremities of truth,
darting in and out of vague shadows,
teasing the tongue into madness…

it can never forgive the memory of you…
i cannot fathom the depth
of your unrelenting silence…
it is too imposing not to be real;
yet, i am here—is it that i cannot forgive?

you force me out here where sound
screams, jarring the senses and
words leap like blood from an open artery;
ugly, disjointed complaints spraying
my world with mundane, monotonous sounds of dying

the agony of absence shatters my equilibrium;
the center spins, gyrating out of control…
i hang on trying to stop the spiral dragging me down;
underneath are your penetrating eyes daring
me to lie again…

how much better the room beneath the floor
where words whispered,
slid by with grace and compassion…
how magnificent the allusions in a vacuum…
how much simpler to be still…


pedestrian

soliloquies
ja allen

starfish...

i eat my words, as you suggest;
but they have lost their edge,
rubbed raw by make-shift sanity…
inside this raisin-walled world of me;
shriveled with age and too much sun…

i perch precariously on the rim of your truth
where I can just see inside
but cannot touch;
cells we mingled mid-air
have floated away,
our coarse agreement rusted
with tears…

i sing to you on the beach at night,
wondering if the words are important anymore…
we molded such fragile conditions, you and i;
but they conflicted;
love could not emerge in arenas of contradiction…
a fool crushed the shifting castle inside the cave;
now there is heavy silence and dread;
suspicion with no corners to weep…

the sun bakes my flesh
and saps all residue of moisture from my tongue…
the words, dead leaves of an old tale,
are scribbled in a foreign hand
on a sand bank…

the beach stretches on forever
like my mind—but i have forgotten the clues
allowing me to reach back
and experience the wet memories,
embellished by longing,
obscured by age and distance,
rewritten on the sands of time…

starfish...

soliloquies
ja allen

précis...

soft sleeves of despair descended
until you arrived to fill me with life…
as i turned in my aged cave,
reaching with yellowed nails
to scratch my name—you turned aside the
claws of my intent…

the words we tossed at each other
were coats to cover the cold,
alleviate the dampness;
as much as i needed your eyes
in order to see, i had to close them forever…
as you grew cold.

i could not risk turning back and
getting caught in your tomb…
there were no truths we could hold together…
no past from which we were immune;
our eyes strayed inward from right angles;
we dissected truth until it lied…

our lips grew parched, sealed…chanting “it
must be mine;”
you escaped with your truth, i with mine…
now we must find a place
to tuck it away like other relics we accumulate…

there is a pack rat that digs you up from time
to time and carries you back to me;
each time you return, you are changed,
decayed by memory as
one by one the parade enlarges, as
another of you files by…

i realize you never existed…
i created you to fill my days
and at night to push the blood through
my veins to my heart…

précis

soliloquies...
jaa

heights...

it is an ebony slate so
you cannot write upon it—
nor can you erase what is written;
on it you either posture like a corpse,
or you slide off slowly with your knees
unlocked to absorb the shock
of dead eyes staring through me….

but i am careful now, alone here
where no visitors come…
in the morning the slate hardens
into memory with echoes the texture
of steel wool…
the hand that offers me my pain
builds my walls with it…
the slate is my floor…
i keep it polished with sighs
that are educated and disciplined….

in the afternoon someone drenches me
with a bucket of blood;
my words run together in it and
the floor becomes deadly.
the blood is my own, of course;
it spills over the edge and soaks
clean walls beneath me…
they throw it back to me
when they have had enough…

in the evening after the sun has fried
cells of longing, it flips
onto its back and slips away…
now i am cold, like a dead
satellite…i crawl on my knees feeling
for the edge;
i am alert; i cannot sleep afraid to dream
of flying for
my life is braille…

I recall that once someone was here with me;
i still hear the echoes of his screams
as he fell…i think he tripped
on my words…

heights...

soliloquies
ja allen

snapshot...

when you learn to dig through the words,
boxed carefully between boredom and innuendo,
straight and tall and wooden,
you will discover none are
offered without need…

none are without reason;
if they appear false or vain,
perhaps, they are meant to be,
or, maybe, there is another layer
left to uncover,
a core left of center of your understanding…

of course, if you peel away too much
from the surface, you will find nothing left.
the isolated words
reveal nothing…together they are a clue
to some sort of vague beginning,
shouts hushed to whispers,
braille marks on a dark wall…
crowded together, in a hurry,
impatient and tired…

even as they are borne, they have died,
like the need they expressed…
nothing remains constant…
truth, like time, passes on
from moment to moment…


snapshot...

soliloquies
ja allen

man...

i must fill my days with dreams and fantasies;
nothing has meaning except these moments
of pure escapism penetrating edges of my sanity,
skirting reason and defying rational thought…
finally only perception and memory matter…
as the world grows bestial and barren.
belying the truth of stated hypocrisies that
we were created equal…

there is a vile stench of cynicism wafting through
corridors of corruption as
i face your dour expression daily
and hear the denigration spew from you;
for i am not required to perform, only to endure…
that makes me insignificant in your eyes…

i am only a vessel to be filled by you…
pursued, shot and stuffed and
mounted on a broad altar where you sweat and toil
posed in bas relief within your phallic dreamscape…
you discount my humanity as scalable against my worth…
you view my tears as liabilities against power;
you insist upon beauty and youth and innocence…
without which I become indentured to indifference…
against the backdrop of your subjective memory
i cease to exist…

as i slip underneath the glass surface where the view
fragments and closes in myopic splendor…
i am lost inside an aging body whose youth fades with
each step down toward the bottom;
the inversion cannot lift my spirit to meet your omnipotent
disdain of me and my wretched grasp
upon your reality—your vision of the state of man
and his subject—woman…
so if you deign to tolerate my presence,
you will only dream of long-legged beauties
whose loveliness inspires you to write lyrics
or soft lines of sweet poetry…
while you ignore the richness of me who has
lived and loved
and who knows exactly what you need to make you whole…

man
prism gates
ja allen

interludes...

unyielding uncertainty summons a sense of depravity…
manifesting itself as intense unease measured
against the backdrop of a throbbing beat and an insistent voice
calling me out from the back stoop where I inevitably wait…

always torrid want shimmers in the distance, an oasis of desire…
i try to unwind stretching heavenward to achieve release,
final climax from my torture….
outside my range of vision,
you stand forever unreachable,
holding me at arm’s length as a form of retribution;
admonishing me to wait on the edge until it is my time…

i weep inside wanting you so much that my mind fragments and
bits soar away on the echoes of drums and strident chords…
when i cannot wait any longer for your unspoken promises…
you acquiesce, stripping me bare…

soon warm tears will mingle with those of humility as you sink
into me and let me feel what I have dreamed…
i will always want more because you never give me enough
of the essence that is you…
the words of your mantra…
daring me to deny you and walk away…
are pointless when you know I cannot….

you realize i can never be filled
yet you allow me to suffer with the belief that I can;
that there are limits to longing…
that eventually the flame will extinguish itself and
settle for sanity…
when you know it is not true…

there is no end of the road for me…
only one tortuous journey after another
as you toy with me and my adoration,
placing strictures on my love
as you wait for someone better—someone
who loves with purity and honor;
someone dancing in the arms of romance and idealism…
as you wait you throw me scraps of love
As each of you tread on me on your way to tomorrow…

interludes

prism gates
ja allen

the stone...

i discovered a small silver stone shaped like a heart beside a miniscule
pond near the edge of my secret garden
where I spend my days in solitude masquerading
with my muse…and my nights
dreaming of love, lost long ago and far away…
the stone throbbed in my hand as I held it,
glowing in the amber light, shimmering against my pale skin…

i caressed it softly, treasuring
its smooth, cool surface…
it promised to stay with me one year and in that year
to make me whole – to teach me to love again…
it whispered to me of strange lands and foreign customs;
while gently intoning its heavenly chant…
assuring me always that i am lovely, desirable, and adorable…
scolding my reluctance to believe...

i secured it at the end of a gold chain resting between my breasts
next to my heart where it listens for each
inevitable beat, each tremor of longing, each sigh of release…
as i make my way through from night until morning…
it knows me intimately and stands watch over my moods,
coaxing me to relax and learn to trust again…
to believe in tomorrow and have faith love will survive even
time and distance…
for true love never dies – it assures me—it sustains and grows,
breeding contentment and peace…

when i enter that state of belief, the stone stills and waits
for my joy to expand crowding out
any residual sorrow. i sleep always with the stone next to my heart
assuring me i am loved;
it synchronizes with my breathing and sits inside my dreams,
guiding me to safe places where we can stay together forever
inside my secret garden where reality waits
by the gate, wanting in—demanding entrance…

the stone is delicate and thin, made of the rarest and finest
of earth’s compounds…
so i must not caress it too often or hold it too long because
the surface may wear away and the glow would die…
I take each moment and press it into my memory storing it all
For the day when it leaves and i am alone…
i am filled with love again and the joy of loving without boundaries
or restrictions…so when the stone finally fades,
i will be able to walk to the gate and out into the world….

the stone…prism gates
ja allen

rage...

Reaching out, my hand brushes your thigh
Triggering explosions
that I cannot silence…
enigmatic energy that is at once intimate and small;
Yet vast and eternal…
Like my soul crying out beneath cold water…
I implode with desire when you touch me;
Shivering, awaiting your retribution…
The fallout of your anger and your uncertainty
For you do not trust me with your love
So I die with loneliness—as the distance between us
Bleeds red hot with your fury…

I grow helpless with defeat…
Weary of the constant struggle
Not to incur your wrath and your scorn…
Your severe criticism of my words,
My thoughts, my attitude toward you…
Then suddenly you turn and love me…
Gesturing me inside where I gleefully flee for the moment
That it lasts because in that instant I live
And my soul soars above the insanity…

The return to distrust and ambivalence
Occurs when I try to say any thing of substance
Or hold you too long or too close…
You back away, suddenly reminded of who I am
And what I represent in this tableau…
This purloined pageant of life
Represented in this holistic horror of existence
Where I am a shadow on the wall,
A whisper on the wind—a fragment of broken glass
Ground underfoot…

rage...prism gates

ja allen

approbation...

cold seeps into my pores, hardening my heart into nihilism;
deep ribbons of uncertainty skirt riveting soul hollows…
as the icy fingers of doubt massage my resistance and I sink into the
frozen abyss where duplicity has iced the murky surface…

i watch myself destroy you,
piece by piece,
reallocating the love you offer to the aged coffin…
while you burn like torqued
chains of resistance, impeded by your
desire for me…by your love and your innocence.

i take them from you because i need them;
i need you to feed me
reason and sanity as i sift the porous seeds of desire
that well inside you and carry you along…
always holding out the promise of fulfillment…
the lie that will never abate…

you can’t see beyond the promise – even though
retractions of innocence and denial
remain in full view beyond the oblique lines;
yet, you mistake them for love and devotion…
i know you do love me without reservations…
i count on that to fuel my needs and
flesh out my desire…

i watch you change who you are and who you should be
into this sham of surrender bowing to me,
to my intense desire to be loved and held in esteem…
you are so far above me, yet I deny you your essence
if it means losing mine…

as an act of attrition, I release you and beg you to move on,
to allow me this final dignity and consolation…
let me go, let me go to where I belong…
let me give you your life back to live as you deserve
in peace and harmony with your youth and the promise of all
the gifts you possess.

I need to be absolved of the guilt of you,
of all the dreams I embraced where we
belonged together – because it was never true
and only i knew the extent of the lie
that i perpetuated in this elusive world where I held
you in my arms and looked deep into your soulful eyes…

approbation...

prism gates

ja allen

the gift...

I weave words without whispering about the wishes that prompt them;
i close my eyes and feel the effective nuances that fold them within;
they transcend to light the world around me and give it meaning…
then I offer my gift to you…
i wait and watch for the subtle signs of approval to illuminate your features,
a smile, a gesture of acceptance, a word of appreciation…
and i take these tender gifts and shelter them deep inside my soul where they shine…
and make me whole…

Each day i weave and wait for your approval…each day you accept my gifts
offering me praise and promise…
i am only as relevant as my latest offering to you and only as
meaningful as your response…
the joy of you as you find meaning inside my words and love
inside my countenance are all that matter in this world…

then the day arrives when you no longer look into my eyes
with warmth and acceptance;
when you no longer acknowledge my gifts or find meaning
in my words – i die slowly and with great pain
as you rip my soul from its essence and fling it
into the darkness where nothing exists…
for i do not live if you reject my words
or deny their existence,
I am nullified, without meaning or purpose…

you tell me that your expectations have altered…
that i no longer move you…
you deny me what I need because you can—
it is within your power to execute me;
now each day I awake and build another tablet of longing
awaiting the final estimation of worth…
only now you pretend you received nothing—that
the words did not exist…
that you never saw them or read them or understood
the naked intent of their construction…

you offer me emptiness and negation…
i am relegated to nothing…
deep inside this void is assurity that the ceaseless
denial will continue well into the next
plea upon deaf ears…
my gift is left exposed on the counter where
a clerk will surely dispose of it…in due time…

the gift...

prism gates

ja allen

idolatry...

do i worship you?
wistfully wishing, always wishing for more…
that i might encompass you, surround you, devour you
but only as one sweet morsel at a time…
it forces you to offer me moments;
a sweet taste upon my tongue…
your fingers brushing my cheek
or touching me so deeply…until
i shiver inside and feel
the weakness descend
convulsing the calm surface of my passion…

i dissolve into nectar
golden and sweet
and slide down your throat
i become the rain drenching you,
quenching your eternal thirst…
i cling to you like skin and
hold you together…
nestle in your sighs,
whispering my love in your ear…

none of it enough to fill my need…
the deep ache of you continues
to rack my body and steal my strength
until i feel i shall expire with longing…
how can one soul need so much…
how can one man offer enough???

idolatry
prism gate
ja allen

circulation...

your measured phrase, precise, poignant
counters—juxtaposed against the
jarring cacophony of my endless complaint…
my words, like bursting vessels, short
circuiting, skirting reason,
kill kindness with a scalpel,
clutched knuckle white,
wielded like a machete…
on this page my whispers reverberate
with rage as i pen with blood,
my soul undone…
it’s not that i’m sick to death of living…
i am wary of death and the lack of suitable
oxygen to breathe.
the burden of creativity has furrowed hope
into arteries, to collect and
stagnate on the surface where my mind clogs
with collected waste…
there is too much to simulate, to orient into reality,
into patterns that appear and disappear
until i cannot control them…
the images come and go superimposed,
blurred, imperfect; and i cannot locate
the truth and its negative…
i struggle; i have no choice…
until my mind shrugs and i have lost
another precious hour…
for what?
for this—for living in reclusion,
back against the walls,
afraid to live, i create my own world,
wondering why i had to reject yours…


circulation...soliloquies
ja allen

escape into you...

your eyes lift slowly
to meet mine…aware
at last of the urgency of the hour…
as minutes tick in rhythm to my heart,
i can no longer swallow, sinking…
until you meet my gaze and
smile patiently gesturing me forward
with a crooked finger

i fly at you after
yearning all day…finally it
is time…you move like silk
around me, peeling away layer upon layer…
brushing your cool hand across my body;
caressing me until I feel ice water shock…

in the hot spray of the shower i
wait for your embrace, feeling
the chill of your fingertips along
my spine…and the soft heat of your body
pressing me against the cool porcelain.
i weep softly as you cover me,
stretching my arms high above my head,
teasing me deliciously with your tongue…

but again you make me wait
even as i plead, trembling—imploring
you…you kiss my eyelids and tip my head back,
kissing my mouth until I can no longer stand.
sweeping me into your arms
you deposit me onto the bed…

where i sink into silver memory
down into our sanguine melody…
as you enter me, i gasp and clutch the edge,
finding your mouth, tender, soft and probing…
i feel myself diminish
growing smaller against your power…

i reside inside your sensuality,
i recede into your subtle psyche
where you absorb my essence
and incorporate my resistance into you…
slowly i fade away until only you
exist, inexorable, supreme, undying
on the threshold of my dreams…

escape into you…
ja allen