The fact of the matter is
        We are jots
        Future fossils
And that is our splendor

We are embedded in limestone and slate
        In the giddiness of yellow daisies
        In redwood colossus and wild grass-blades
We ride the coattails of small histories
        To become endless saga
        The place where godhead dreams
We pound the shores of countless drinks
        In unrelenting swell after swell of redesign
And burst forth on the walls of Lascaux
Teaching destined masters to cross the line
        Proving the double helix --

The stars tell me
I will know love
They talk to me at night
Through my bedroom window
They speak of astral strings
          that make all things
And billions of souls
Heave a wistful sigh

          for me

I am sanctioned as such
Left with a lotus I cannot touch
In that space between follies
I breathe
          in
          and
          out

Waiting heart

When I touched your arm
        Lightly
        That first time
        Just near your shoulder
It floored me
I thought
        This man
This flesh-and-bone man
So close
I suddenly wanted to kiss you --

Your green eyes had already
        Caught me in mesmerizing gaze
I was in your space
Sharing the air between us
You slid your arm around my waist
        I let my knee touch yours --

We were suspended in time
Wide open to each other
It makes me sigh to remember:
How everything came into being
        That night and disappeared
Before the dawn --

In tatters
My heart
still beats

How it
can be so
is a mystery

Dragged through
the streets like
a dog

For all to see
Ragged and
betrayed

Left on
the side
of the road

To die
But it lives
purportedly

Poetry feeds us in that dreaming place
        where we are held captive,
Words slipped under the door --

Here is what I know:
It is food for my muse that sweet sister
        whose moods dictate mine
She throws parties in my psyche that
        last for days at a time
She sings to me of things she's seen
That make my cells careen out
        of the room flying faster than
        thought itself
And the poem's heart appears --

It is as mystical as
        it should be --

I like the quick snap of sharp poetry
And the way it comes, unstoppable,
Like a rushed intake of breath
A mad courtship of longing and will
Until by chance, almost, a birth --
Prosodies brought from heart to pen
To bounce and jostle in their metered gaits
And front a small rebellion on the page
Before settling into the circumstances --