Nothing's Coming...

Nothings coming. What I know of the world is bottlenecked behind my insufficient talent. If I could conjure the urgency of my heart into a single sentence or simply describe the hummingbirds nectared lance spearing the contents of a blossom while a tom cat pads toward him through the peonies. Hell, Id drink to that. But I cant conjure an opener, not a trickle of truth, let alone a stream of unconsciousness made conscious by a paragraph that proves we still have our humanity, inalienable from our flesh, as long as there is a glass of even-filled to offer a toast, soil and sun, toil and trouble, the intoxication of summer days spent down by the river, young-limbed and bramble wild, splashing through the current, stealing the first kisses in battered pick-up trucks with Patsy playing and one knee painstaked against the steering wheel. What was her name who dared to wetly whisper your favorite tune into your ear, with the scar on her hip, and the father that died in a grassfire? We all yalp sweetly and mark an X in our own way to state we are alive. Patience. Of course faith ferments, if you sit on your green urgency too long. But whats the hurry? Have a sip of wine, swish it across your tongue. What we all know of sorrow, let this moment stand as fruitful enough. Edit later.
~RMA

Before me a bottle...

Before me a bottle, a corkscrew, an empty glass. Do I dare? This is a magic vintage, and my spirit weakens from the remembering. The bottle-temptress is green, smoky-green, green of lichens and cool thickets where lovers escape from parched Augusts and prying eyes. Green of layered petticoats hiding soft and voluptuous shapes, a liquid-like rustling that hints at meadows full of birdsong and fountains sweet to please. Green beaker of hope, you are the throb of cult mysteries. You are raw emeralds and the drum of approaching thunder. I tremble before your dark green depths, your swollen blood reds and delicious overripe blacks. O beautiful red-breathed fairy in your green glass gown, nymph of golden-spurred drunkenness, handmaiden of couplets and charms, when I lift your mouth to make you mine you need no coaxing: inch by inch you reveal your naked scarlet self, a cloudburst of pinks and blushes, a torrent of flesh-soft rubies crushed together in a midnight lake of shimmers and crimson licks. I put my lips to your yearning pools and drink. Drink! Your peppered velvets soften my tongue, my grateful throat. When I taste you I taste springtime and rain, violets and eternity, your liquid soul a deep dim of colliding nights and secret harbors. When I taste you you make my mouth electric, and shock my words with lightening. I steady my pen, desperate to describe the heavenly lift of your burgundy wings. But first, another sip
~ZA