I can hear my soul
kicking its feet inside my body

trying to get out. I can hear it
trying to boot my body into its deathbed:

Death lies waiting within the soft harp
of sleep. My soul is thrashing my ribs

twisting my spine, milking my ****
to a shrunken wrinkled prune-like mummy.

There is death crawling under our skin, death
in the broken heart of love, death in Mother Mary’s lie.

I can feel my soul slamming against my lungs
trying to puncture holes in them. I can

feel its pointed teeth eating its way out
of my ***. I hear it inside of me

laughing at God’s sick jokes, licking my heart
dry and clawing at my eyes.

—————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012

all rights reserved

http://www.amazon.com/The-Second-Coming-Dah/dp/0982874715

In this poem I am not speaking to you
but to myself: As I write,

sentences form their own voices, their own
moods and opinions such as rebellions,

loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe
is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless

consciousness is composed of collective mind
stretched across the magnetism of space only

to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd,
light and heavy; humanity has existed

for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious
and inhumane; thrashing about in between

life and death where in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis.

————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012

all rights reserved

"in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert

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Who am I to know that
the existence of heaven lives
in the pause between breaths
or that the story of creation is
a searing scar in the side of Jesus?

I have collected my pleasures,
like monsoons collect the dead,
have collected my memories,
the raw force of vitality,

the swift silk of a spider’s web,
the emptiness of being, all of this:
a country of vibrant emotions.

I have touched the sea with my hands,
bringing them together, feeling the abrupt salt
between my fingers, torrid like
the stinging whip of a lover:

Her tongue burns me alive with
its naked wine; her eyes dig
into the depths of mine.

Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God
lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud,
or that twilight is a sudden sadness
like gray blood clots caused by black thorns?

Still, my excitement is like a tower
of energy or a vigorous burst of *****
or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key
into my soul where a secret stillness

wallows in its swaggering bliss.
I have tasted the meat of the universe,
its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it
with my gentleness, a gentleness like

soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper:
Her mouth burns me alive with its raw juice;
her heart feeds from mine.

Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit
lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that
death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones,
the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart?

—once, Jesus summoned me.
He undid his wounds with the jagged blades
of my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying:

My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother ...
who am I ... to know ...
who I am?

________________

From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language'

©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved

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The spirited light; the solar-like wind;
breath with its passion; the sun’s copious
****** venom.

I speak of everything and all things
without caution: this noise inside my head;
layers of high pitched harmonics;

the compressed hours between
birth and death; the heart’s heat
ascending and descending;

the end always beginning and again
your Gothic eyes. I have been here
and there, a prodigal hawk

with the flavor of blood-kisses hovering
like steam or mist or a weapon stirring
the body’s carbonic magnetic motion;

never the sky always the silence disclosing
the stillness in death’s fantasy—life and death;
love and loss; a fatalistic dream-reel

as if two mirrors facing each other reflecting
the same vacant image. I remember the faint
trail of finger prints; my impatient pulse

raced into yours. Deserted passions
like roses each one dies the same way
—our emotions mumbled

through love and into the glazed elixir
of a French kiss: In my arms you had fallen asleep
not knowing I had left.

——————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012  
all rights reserved

"never the sky always the silence"—from Andre' Breton

Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah" and "in forbidden language/dah"