:::simply speaking:::

please do not step blindly into darkness.is your heart heavy or solid with truth.are things as they seem or how u see them.walk softly and speak slowly after silence and thought.wash your hands again.annoint your water with purity.scent it with time and a breath of knowlede.inhale and then cease to do so.forget childish dreams.take in hand what owns and controls u.who can be led or subjected but by freewill.this freewill is your soul and you are not one with yourself.brave now and shut up.no time for whimpering fools.u are not so foolish to think they will help u.down to your knee and take in this moment.this moment is all you can feel.walk soft little soul.look up and keep your direction.no one can see us here.but we are.they are quick to fall.we hide.we walk soft.cry my love.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::1908:::

missing u sweet man
early mornings remember you
my little feet, wrapped in leaves
running across broken cement
through rainbows in the mist.
you gave me nothing worldly
to adjust my nimble mind..to taint it.
you gave me jars for lightning bugs
and spoons for digging earth.
you gave me Schlitz and Sweet Tea
in the tepid Autumn dusk of your love.
to climb through the trees at daybreak...
to brush mosquitoes off of your back in the eve...
to pick wild okra and asparagus and fresh peach...
every tunnel you would let me push the horn
and these things you gave me can never be sold
they are my body and they are to be coveted.

Ink Spots, water witching, wine making..my man
bourbon, breakfast and the coarseness of your hands
which were never laid upon me...
you kept me well and made me become you
i still hear you everyday and i listen still and closer now...
i lay in the bath with my feet on the wall, my skin red
i use far too much water and it is a shame...
i lay in milk and honey and Patchouli and I watch
your clock
every second moving into the next seems to look back
who is this Arrogant molester...pushing time forward
Captivating it and Owning it.
Time itself is sweet and succulent...
Time gives us our first kiss and our first child
With time we learn to make life and grow Up and Orgasm
and then this being, this void or dream takes our Time
and he is gone with it.
Your time is gone sweet, sweet man...
but you have given me so much of yours
that you breathe through me now
my lungs are full of your breath and my lips
singing your sweet songs all day and night.
I still tip toe and twirl through the kitchen
and I dance with you and I love you more.
Grandpa.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::day ditty:::

where were you today...
i was stepping thru the grass by the creek, cold and impatient.
there are no relics for us to collect, nothing hiding beneath the silver rush of waves.
i hold a trinket in my hand i have a song in my heart...
i share it simply with the fowl..with the trees,
with the beauty that cannot be compared to you.
i am soft, i remain outstretched, unblemished and quiet, alone.
what is the breeze i feel dancing inviting itself, invading my body...
i cover my eyes, closed shut, with my hand...
i don't want your breath to leave me...
it is warm and the elusive net has enchanted me, awakened and owns me...
i tiptoe home...lithe and unaware to any beginning or ending before now.
the smell of the match burning,the wick is broken...
i slip into sweet slumber... and a sigh..cry my love.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::a field alone:::

i would drink the water, as it is.
unmoving and listless
a well forgotten
deep inside ground where not only rain has fallen
where lovers will not travel.

i would press my cheek
silent into the ground
and let the water in
through the corner of my mouth
past my lips, unacquainted

this water that they dread
and advert their stare
has called to me, and i have answered
it has led me to it and i wait
pure, unidentified.

the bitterness, they lied
is sweet.
the filth is honey drifting in nectar
i sing to the sun softly
i sink inside this damp Shangrila.

if i cannot drink
i will let it roll off of my tongue
across my cheek, it pales my blush
i hold the taste
the sun dries the salt to my eye.

 

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::truth subsides:::

i have a legend
entombed within
a quiet witness
ever still and somber
dampened by your body
cleansed with it and taught
a lesson for one
a slave to daydreams
in vacant evenings
upon white sheets
with empty hands upturned
it is a last thought
before retreating into my Shangrila
and erasing what never was
truth imagined
easier left behind than
truth realized

 

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::with upmost sincerity:::

~purity is evasive and impossible~
it is like a ghost that tantalizes me with a glimpse and then dissipates
it kisses me briefly on summer days and then abandons me when i need it most
perhaps the secrets that purity holds are fatal, or perhaps i am undeserving
it could be that purity is only a notion, childishly i believe and make true
time, my only currency, will certainly tell

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::