In Florida sometimes it rains so hard
that you believe that it can't possibly stop,
that it will just rain and rain forever.

Sometimes I'd wake to a storm late at night,
and I'd sit out on the porch.

You could smell the lightning, and the coolness of the storm would
make your hair stand;
I'd feel so alive.

Some nights I'd go out, and my father
would be sitting on the porch already.
Lost in the storm
or maybe
called to it.
We wouldn't talk,
but we'd be lost together
in the rain and thunder.

Sometimes I wonder what of him
is left in me.
I am not sure
if I am more afraid of there being
very little
or of there being a great deal,
but when it rains
I think about him on that porch;

I do not evade
Nor shun
Visions crude
That come to aid
My drafting pen
And chaperone
To creativities den

Cause I know
Yes I know
My darkest thoughts
Will form a poem

The abysm of the unbodied Infinite;
A fathomless zero occupied the world.
A power of fallen boundless self awake
Between the first and the last Nothingness,
Recalling the tenebrous womb from which it came,
Turned from the insoluble mystery of birth
And the tardy process of mortality
And longed to reach its end in vacant Nought.
As in a dark beginning of all things,
A mute featureless semblance of the Unknown
Repeating for ever the unconscious act,
Prolonging for ever the unseeing will,
Cradled the cosmic drowse of ignorant Force
Whose moved creative slumber kindles the suns
And carries our lives in its somnambulist whirl.
                                         --By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto I

Currents
of electricity
tiny pulses that
barely roll off
my skin
my skin, shivering
not from cold
only vibrations
just under
your lips
that are near me,
not touching
your eyes on me,
slaking thirst
your stare
penetrating
your hands
in the space of thickness that grows
between flesh
up against the wall,
breaking it down
the heat that opens up
between us
is like lava
and its liquid
pulls me in
then
all is a rush
my cheeks in pink blush
in this private universe
just our breathing
pulse quickening
tiny tongue curls
wetness melting
I am a pillar of fire
your touch the slow burn
as I writhe upon
this stake of desire
imprinting my loneliness
with your need
stirring up my inner forces
with the power
of your
          giving

Dreams are a fiction reality
Where sometimes it brings you to a wonderful place
While other times your left in your own hell.
How You wake up and take it is more important.
Are you happy?
Left in a confusion?
Or just get up like nothing happened
because, you know it didn't.
For myself,  Dreams follow me all day
Eventually until they're either forgotten
Or the next night comes and a new dream appears.
I find it funny that a good dream
Can now be left as a nightmare
And a nightmare isn't so scary anymore.
Although tell me this,
When you know it's a dream
Do you wanna wake up
Or just see how it goes?

Blackbird
shadow death
witness
the spiraling
madness

glide
silent over
once vital beehive
shorn gray
paper thin

sip
raw honey
hardening
in the merciless
heat

nourish
the suffering
concentration-camp thin
jutting bone
slack skin

reflect
the boundless light
of a shield
wrought from
love

honor
these golden
futile gestures
they are not
infinitesimal grains

Blackbird
with beaded sight
testify
*do not avert
your eyes