Matter cannot be created or destroyed
Is love the same
Has it always existed
In one form or the other
If so
My love and I
Well
We have loved forever (we just hadn't found each other)
And forever is a circle
Which means we never began and we will never stop

Fourteen months I practiced
Climbing rocks and hillocks too
I was off to see the Seer
On a mountain in Peru
I packed my gear
My ropes and boots
and I set off on my trip
I had brought along
ten pairs of gloves
So I would not lose my grip
The group we had assembled
Had questions for this man
Questions church folk could not answer
And we all hoped he can
Tales of his great insight
Spread from sea to sea
And we were off on an adventure
And he would talk to me
Each seer lived inside a cave
With a pillow and a goat
With the goat hair stuffed his pillow
And the extra for a coat
He never left his mountain
Never came to town for food
He was always free with answers
No matter what his mood
The seer had been a fixture
On the mountain top for years
Over five hundred winters passing
Had meant there'd been eight seers
We climbed upon arrival
It took two days just to reach
The base camp, our new homeland
We would learn and he would teach
The weather cleared on Tuesday
And we ventured out in force
We were bogged down ******* Friday
And we had to leave our horse
Each day the trek was tougher
But, our goal was still in sight
We figured if the weather cleared
We'd be there in one more night
The next day we had made it
We were where the seer had sat
There was a goat, and a small letter
Saying "There's now an app for that"
"Thank you for your interest"
"But, I've set up a new site"
"It's www.seer.com"
"Safe journey home, and have a good good night".

it's suicide
really,
cigarettes.

but the wistful
thin milky smoke
reminds me of peace
that I never feel anymore.

the drag
the heat
and I drag my lungs behind me on a gravel road
but the hit
I take
feels
safe

craving
to wrap my lips
around a death trap
an expensive
killer
beautiful
cigarette

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .

A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire

Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float

Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.

Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle.  On the high

Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.

It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will **** and eat.

Should I but drift cross the street
Like a tattered pamphlet that
Could only be used for the first week:
For a fraction of the cost.

Should I but lay upon the floor
As if I was a simple throw
Destined to lay at the feet of those
Who thrive on what they know.

Should I but fall onto the side
Of a dense and forested path
Then I would know how it is to live
Without fear of turning back.

Should I but wake before I die
And renounce my elusive doom
Only then would my mind lie
Peacefully beneath my tomb.

I often wonder if God looks down at us with a microscope
Like a small child examining ants
As we march to work and we march to school
Falling into the rhythmic beat our busy lives create for us
Doing everything we can to fall in line

I wonder if God laughs, when he sees me stumbling over small cracks in the sidewalk
Thinking I know the best way to go
Thinking that I can make it alone
Not realizing how miniscule I am in this universe that he has created

I wonder if God hears my insignificant squeak
When I turn to the heavens and attempt to roar in pride
When I bury my head in my hands and sob over Earthly things
Do God’s cheeks sting from salty tears as well?

I wonder if God’s heart breaks
As I struggle with doubt
As my heart wrestles with questions about his existence
Or does God even have a heart to break?

I wonder if God turns his head away when I attempt to meet his gaze
When I stare into the sky and challenge his authority
When I think I know more then a man who knows everything
Or do his eyes stare back into mine, as he reminds me of everything I don’t know?

I wonder if God ever wonders about me
This strange little creature that he has made
Fighting society
Attempting self-salvation
Looking up and asking questions
I wonder if he smiles

The book is closed, the end is writ
And here I am rereading it
The words unveil with every line
A placid state, collected mind
I spare the pen, its stain of red
Allow the ink to soak instead
Into my flesh and through my bones
My skeleton has always known
That what is done within this life
May come disguised, the form - a knife
And it will lay upon your back
You may not even feel attacked
But scars will form in every place
That you have ever tried to face
The end is writ, the book is closed
So rest your eyes, you've made it home