These Moments

For BrianI guess these moments are painful nowEyes watered in these moments nowLike chopping onions in these moments nowIn these moments now, it burns.Our bond reverberates endlessly in the echoes of Expand Your MindDéjà vu bottled and stored like vintage wine in a cellar of soulsAged in inferno, climate controlled to blister and scar the skinWith every instinct beckoning to leave, it takes fortitude to stayThreshold for torment tempted, transformation is not for the faint of heartBut there is clarity here, a singular timeless purposeI fight through the agony of a thousand flesh piercing daggersTo look you squarely in the eyes.I guess these moments are quiet nowAware of stillness in these moments nowLike meditation in these moments nowIn these moments now, I yearn.Surrounded by the softness of your voice, tears are soothingLike streams winding rhythmically downhill, charming an on looking meadowPassive blues in the sky match the easeful blues of the waterLaughter tickles the ears, seducing the slightest of smilesThat grin of finding a bar that is pleasingly slow, like midafternoonWhen a corner booth is always empty and invites pleasant conversationAnd when the tick, tick, tick of the clock is stuck repeatingYou know what time it is.I guess these moments are truer nowReleased from inhibitions in these moments nowLike añejo tequila in these moments nowIn these moments now, discern.Merciless downpours allow no shelter for secretsSymbiotic in their existence, thunder and lighting belt each other's melodyLike a twisted duet, painting both sides of a canvas in unisonBrushes connected in synchronicity while never touchingPeering through your spectacles, I observe perception meltingGlacial ice washed away revealing solid foundations in erratic rockThat convivial, drunk with confidence glanceSuggests you know me better than I know myself.I guess these moments are often nowFinding strength in these moments nowLike salvation in these moments nowIn these moments now, we churn.An avalanche of diction inhabits daily routinesWords, like children, are nurtured, molded, and then set freeZealous emotion guides the pen, fertilizing page after page after pageThe poet, merely a surrogate, births life from the voidWe deal the alphabet like trading cards, swapped back and forthThen stacked up like a house, as flimsy as the illusion of deathEvery story is a portal into the infinite depth of a momentIn this regard, you are here - we made it home.Written August 2015 in Portland, Oregon