I don’t know,

Simple, simple, simple.

Divine. To not know.

Even when the night is dusky and when the mood is gone,
When she looks out the window and knows there is nothing,
She doesn't see nothing.

As long as she has her mind, she always has so so many somethings.

She sees herself. She sees a face she knows.

She sees cheekbones for days. She sees a face that she has watched grow into its nose.

She sees ambition and potential.

She sees lovers easily lost. She sees haters torn from her.

She sees a smile that she guards only for herself.

Loneliness has never been so sweet and so satisfying.

She feels true love. She feels an ernest quench to the dryness that used to be in her throat.

She feels safe. and free. and had. and good. and bad.

She sees all that she is. And she ******* loves it.

Captive mind her own. She feels good alone.

Space is deep and dark and blue black. It expands behind us, never ending, never beginning. Stars are sprinkled there in that space, some we engulf as we move our massive star outlined bodies, some become part of us as we move. We are magnificent and huge 3-d outlined beings, we are billions of years old, or maybe we have always been. We are not made of matter for there is no matter, only the blue black ‘space’ dotted with the lights of millions and trillions of stars; some of which make up our massive forms; and our consciousness, our knowing, our silent communication, our utterly immortal existence. We exist there with each other, there is no breath but we breathe each other, there is stillness except for ripples of love and knowing passed between our conscious mind.

We have been here for so long existing, taking millennia upon millennia to gracefully move about in this space, so massive and grandiose, then we wanted to create, or we needed to create. So we began in some way to create life and substance in our ‘souls’. Or maybe we willed souls to exist by our consciousness and from there we made light, maybe it was a black hole or rip in the continuum, but whatever it was, it was necessary and magnificent. From our diaphragm areas flowed blue, sparkling streams of light, shooting, streaming out of me and out of him.

Nearly facing each other square on, our individual streams of light and blue love and diamond brilliant swirls of matter caught each other and began to spin. Just like a wind storm on earth, two winds from opposite directions will create a tornado, a spinning, so did we. We created a soft and new little system, I wouldn’t quite call it a solar system yet, with the planets hardly developed, more like soft, foamy spirals trying to form sphere-like mounds, with suns in the middle still shy of their own little light. Everything so perfectly baby blue and new. Shooting stars soft and content, a milky blue and sparkling atmosphere enveloping airy spheres of new, new matter - we made something our own.

Something different from us existed, there between our bellies we kept it safe; there existed no to threat to it, but we longed to keep it close, watching it spin so comfortably between us. As we watched our little system develop, we too developed, our consciousness grew, we became even more gentle, with tenderness, a graceful antiquity and adoration dripping from our starry forms.

Feed me your visions,
Pour your thoughts into my throat,
Your eyes like mine.
I need. I need. I need, you.
You. You. You. You are my blood.
But with you, I never bleed.

Entrance me, easily,
Hands on my neck, fingers tracing the lines in my spine,
Turning my soul with your palm,
Shifting my dark heart into the light of your gaze.

Dreams my dear,
Demon gone,
Heavy angel wings sending pounding waves through my chest,
Feathers soft,
Tip my chin aloft, with one long finger placed where only it knows where to go.

In this way I am fed.

Everything feels wrong when you're gone,
Like dusk in a movie about monsters,
Like rust, like too much dust,
Like sad elephants lacking tusks,
Too many eerie feelings for me to foster.
Things are off.

Dressed up with no where to go meets the first time you watch a dystopian film as a child.
That sinking pit in your stomach,
That hopeless apathy,
That dread of a future made of nothingness...

Well anyway, those two feelings fall in love, get married, and give birth to a hideous child that comes to visit me
every time you're away.
Darling. Come back to me.
Keep the terrible child at bay.

I can't listen to music.
I can't eat.

I know you're just sleeping or your phone died.
I know you're out eating or going for a ride.
But. ****.

This monster movie goes on and on
This dusty, rusty dusk won't end
And the elephants lacking tusks?
They moan and bellow and I join them.

He slept and I loved it,
He dreamt and I coveted not,
Having dreamt many dreams,
Spared of sleepless nights,
His sleep was my happiness,
His dreams my requite,

His hands in my hair,
Fingers long and strong,
The air in his lungs,
His chest so wide and proud,
Twice I said to him:
           Look up love it's the stars
Twice he said to me:
           No you are my star

Though I've dreamt and slept to my hearts content,
It's his dreaming, his sleeping,
That murders my weeping,
The gentle close of his eyes and his gracefully wandering mind,
That sends a torrent of peace through my chest.

for Sally, Bex and Tonya, Denel and my beloved

<>

gods do not seek forgiveness,
or comprehension,
desertion, desecration, ascension
or condemning condescension

but how how they crave
just a good conversation,
to get a word in edgewise,
a nice chat,
entrée à, la tête-à-tête,
entre deux, deluxe-amis

a casually talking,
absent of
words of need and beseech,
reason and causality,
and no I or We pronouns,
sans enunciations and annunciations,
false hopes for incarnations, incantations,
set asides for life's grievous aches
all human requests, and some of God's commandments
for now, set aside,
annulled

just a talk,
some repartee,
but mostly an open ear lent,
an early morn quiet listen
over tea (he/she) and coffee (me),
paying attention to
both sides of an interactive story

as recompense for my willingness to be,
his engaged counter party,
my mourning gloomier cloudiness,
quick exchanged for instant,
rising sunshine warming glorious

my vista
of a bay dancing
to Tchaikovsky Swan Lake ballet music,
deftly inserted between
an Agnus Dei and an Ave Maria

mood music he said,
and we chuckled,
he/she was god and orchestrated
my tastes,
Adele et Dudamel,
comprehending my undesirable apprehension,
by granting my needy wish for
poetic inspirational composition contentment

all exchanged,
for just a good listen,
no judgements, in either direction

I am the god of love,
the one who makes you weep,
when you study your beloved's rising chest,
each uplifted breast heaving,
a confirmation blessing,
that her life is present
for at least the next second,
ready for your magi adoration

be not fearful,
this day we talk only,
as I pass by,
I have no business to conduct,
on your island of sheltering redoubt,
but to engage and unburden
for even gods
are required to confess,
and aging godheads do adore
a human shoulder
upon to rest,
a great invention,
(If I may say so myself)
and to whom better to address
than my only love poetry
poète personnelle

here he off-guards me
with a favorite injection,
Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings,
music so sweet that it never fails
to weaken my knees,
sweeping my eyes unto weeping
priming me with this first coat of
sounds so elementary soothing

he half-bows before me and says,

forgive me human, for I have sinned

in Dallas and Nice,
just this past week,
with forays here and there,
doing god's work

read your bitterness and struggle,
anger and forgiveness all in one crust,
furious curses and wails so plaintive,
my heavenly musicians weep from jealousy,
at the cries emanating from the fired fury song
of human hearts torn and love plundered

I am the god of love

and

the god of pain and all that is the

anti-love

(and to make me better understand,  
Schindler's List score, so sweetly,
he plays for me,
to clarify the atmosphere,
that death and love -
and the courage of understanding,
so oft go hand in hand)

write me a love poem for me,
no hymn or sonnet do I require,
for love is essence of forgive,
there is no perfect union,
that cannot stand,
with out this emotion of
conciliatory intermediation

tell me you understand
that the scales
of bereft befallen,
disparate chance interrupting randomized,
must periodic perforce
sometimes weigh more,
than the good of simple

balance tip that creative god spark within,
of which you write,
away from my bloodied, unsightly hand

write me one more love poem
a frisson semi-sweet and cleanly neat,
of good things sad,
but worthy of remembrance

you are not the first for this bequest to receive,
other poet's before and after,
will Jacob-wrestle with my angels,
battling to find the...

no matter

"my love to thee is sound sans crack or flaw"^

let your love poem
to me
be of whole healing,
for these disarrayed feelings
cannot forever persist,
the perfect balance you desire
is not on your Earth existent,
unobtainable

these cracks and flaws must and will come


and yet

love poems
will be our common language

and then he/she left,
leaving this poem behind,
born from my mind, yet,
carved on my skin,
written with the nib of my rib,
sealed and signed,
future undefined,
but dated upon my
cleansed hand's lifeline,
hand held outstretched
as if to say

“and yet"