Pi~lated by Pontius to an undisclosed location--
we traded presence, as the fruits of labor.
Half-eaten...the ratty dark-lets of our pits--
eyed forms of survival.
You the better for, I the better for...with our
overgrown estates of separation--(spare us the
indignity)...never!
We were made for this, weren't we?
Who got in front of a beam of light first--you or I...
seems like something I would have done--nonetheless,
therefrom the race.
More naked than two millennia of winter...whoa,
aye--glory baby, glory!
Eye contacting eyes...in and out, out and in, sheets
bathed in volumes of water.
We tried to ****** one another in a fit of passion...
so what.
A passion that swore responsibility for whatever it
may, or may not do...so what.
I was the burning mascot of your dormitory for
three and a half years, illegally--sharing a single bed,
cultivating my poetry.
You Adam-ed me...I Eve-ed you--we watched the apple
go red, we both bit--chewing it to the core, mouth to mouth.
As our jaws tired, we noticed the poppies everywhere...
the poppies are everywhere, we cried!
Black, covetous mass, black--sleep bedding sleep, closing
skies--opening grounds.
The poppies are everywhere--we began to horde grace,
deadpan our burial grounds in plain view, something
went amiss.
We played with frames, instead of obliterating the de-vice...
for faces lost in time, adoration.
Where's the reserve to suffer this rich knowledge--everywhere
is your womb, all-seeing and blind!
The poppies are everywhere...I pose upon the ground--
offer tragic gestures, feel me!
No, it all must be exhausted--human genius must be bested,
made the fool--it must be so.
Air after air of convincibility booted--left, right and center stage.
Clay in cold light, natural of its own...that's what we should want
for one another, shouldn't it...how?
We wanting more, as someone we may never know--let alone
one another.
Take that light, and work it to forgiveness, that is possible I
believe...the poppies wink.
Funny thing though...one of the two shall work far less for that
forgiveness, nearly not at all--******* inequity!
No...the schema's perfect--karma's debt, as served, perfect.
Stay in that truth, but the Truth is too big...the poppies are everywhere.
My head wraps around it like a whirling dervish--though no planet
dizzies...this is no matter of intellect but Heart.
The butterfly that's pinned--becomes the pinhead...spare me!
If I am she, and she is me...as one and all, who spares who--from
what and why...the poppies pock affirmatively.
*First of a series of poems, as in that vein, under this title.