To Polina, my anchor, through all my lives

Between dawn and dusk
on the precipice
in shades of scarlet
stood a magnificent house

Strangers and I were enthralled
by the neon red foyer where
Francesca and Paolo welcomed us
to the house of a thousand doors

Each door an invitation
to delicious desire
each room a seduction
of perilous passion

One door opened —
three bare women holograms
drank from a small lake and
brandished wicked, feline smiles

At my feet a church of cardinals
glowing with tears, heat and sweat
whimpered in their prayers
but the pope watched from afar.  

He speaks—
the mouth at once is an eye, an abyss
and a hurricane from Pandora's box

Then I am I no more — a cardinal in crimson —
but no shame or guilt guides me
when blood-red lips land on mine

"Do you not see
there is equal courage
equal purity
in giving
into
temptation—
the kind
that appals the devil
to revel
in the hurt, the open wounds,
and the agony
to dive deep—
into the depths
and say all the yeses
to embrace the darkest demons
of your soul?

Enter—
and you shall find
hell or heaven within yourself."

like so many things,
it is a state of mind.
it comes from within.

a ricochet between worlds.  
a progression, a gradient, a spectrum.  

like a child’s mind,
it grows and grows and grows,
always evolving.

but it is most like
a flower:
even with the kindest elements,
it must flourish on its own.

Since when did we  
carve coffins
(with a coldness we can hibernate in)
out of each other’s cruelty?

Had i known gods perish
by their believers’ hand,
i would’ve stopped you from swearing
— on our mutual martyrdom —

“Cross my heart and
Hope to die.”

To Jess

The heat, the humidity,
And the bright blankness of the sky.

Handicapped by fear, not darkness.
Shaken, yet their bodies vigilant.

Bold crimson seared through the flesh
Like fresh sin bled into it.

A conspicuous scarlet letter.
I was a public display, a warning to all.

An audience of whispers whirled before me,
But I did not waver like they did.

Cross after cross, crisis after crisis,
Crucifixion made hands sandpaper dry.

My sentence was final. A full stop.
I danced with deadly weight.

I was hell itself. I had walked through fire.
My skin marked unforgiving constellations.

So what was that little light of yours,
To a shell dead inside?

Know that,
in afterlife,
it is not a crime to be born
out of time,
waiting for
the end of an era
that never came—
soon enough for you.  

Are you seeing the immortal roots of the trees
you’ve planted springs ago,
in the garden that has outlived you?
Because I hear you in
the leaves’ rustling whispers:

All life returns to the ground,
but this is how you inherit the earth.

(To fools without fear)

So I implore you,

To sit at Death's table,
and eat his fears;

To dine with fine wine,
and season the spine of darkness with pain;

To be drunk on hope,
in crystal glasses made of tears;

To be high on communion,
and poison Chaos' reign;

To look into his eyes,
so blank, so bleak, so black,

and laugh.

Make him tremble.
Make him proud to take us.