For Brian

I guess these moments are painful now
Eyes watered in these moments now
Like chopping onions in these moments now
In these moments now, it burns.

Our bond reverberates endlessly in the echoes of Expand Your Mind
Déjà vu bottled and stored like vintage wine in a cellar of souls
Aged in inferno, climate controlled to blister and scar the skin
With every instinct beckoning to leave, it takes fortitude to stay
Threshold for torment tempted, transformation is not for the faint of heart
But there is clarity here, a singular timeless purpose
I fight through the agony of a thousand flesh piercing daggers
To look you squarely in the eyes.

I guess these moments are quiet now
Aware of stillness in these moments now
Like meditation in these moments now
In these moments now, I yearn.

Surrounded by the softness of your voice, tears are soothing
Like streams winding rhythmically downhill, charming an on looking meadow
Passive blues in the sky match the easeful blues of the water
Laughter tickles the ears, seducing the slightest of smiles
That grin of finding a bar that is pleasingly slow, like midafternoon
When a corner booth is always empty and invites pleasant conversation
And when the tick, tick, tick of the clock is stuck repeating
You know what time it is.

I guess these moments are truer now
Released from inhibitions in these moments now
Like añejo tequila in these moments now
In these moments now, discern.

Merciless downpours allow no shelter for secrets
Symbiotic in their existence, thunder and lighting belt each other’s melody
Like a twisted duet, painting both sides of a canvas in unison
Brushes connected in synchronicity while never touching
Peering through your spectacles, I observe perception melting
Glacial ice washed away revealing solid foundations in erratic rock
That convivial, drunk with confidence glance
Suggests you know me better than I know myself.

I guess these moments are often now
Finding strength in these moments now
Like salvation in these moments now
In these moments now, we churn.

An avalanche of diction inhabits daily routines
Words, like children, are nurtured, molded, and then set free
Zealous emotion guides the pen, fertilizing page after page after page
The poet, merely a surrogate, births life from the void
We deal the alphabet like trading cards, swapped back and forth
Then stacked up like a house, as flimsy as the illusion of death
Every story is a portal into the infinite depth of a moment
In this regard, you are here – we made it home.

Written August 2015 in Portland, Oregon