if i cannot sing
      and cannot touch
i will prove that
       i can heal myself
through the act
       of healing others

299 792 458 m / s,
The speed of light
Continues
To move this
Ship From the
Top
To
The
Bottom
Of a Galaxy.

They say it is possible
To travel  
It in
100,000 years;
However, it would take
Trillions of years
To complete the task
To get there,
Through the
Central Plane-
Come on,
Then let us go.          

What would it look like...
From the inside,
Traveling
To the other side,
Surpassing
Space and Time…?

Chills run up
Your spine.

To go any further
Would be impossible.

This trip is
Completely
Off the grid
And
Out of reach,
Unless
Scientists
Reach a breakthrough,
So
Evolutionary.

Will we ever see it?
Most likely, never.

Darkness has the same
Speed as light,
And this leads me to
Think that
They are fighting
All the time.

Glowing:
In
The
Dim
Abyss.

Breaking a barrier-
Only to be
Meshed together.

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?

Keep the lid on the coffin tight
Gay Paree on a hot Summers night
Plans are laid, secrets kept
Mr. Mojo whispering

Call the witness to the stand
The only one left is Pam
Took the secret to the grave
Mr. Mojo whispering

Count out loud now 1, 2, 3
Janice Joplin and 2 Jimmy's
Pay the price to the Bar Keep
Mr. Mojo whispering

The pain he felt, could not accept
Mojo Rising has up and left
Final countdown, Jimmy's free
Mr. Mojo whispering

Learned to rhyme the darkened times
All of it inside his mind
Lived and died his poetry
Mr. Mojo whispering

paper and pen won't do,
i'll pool blood around my frame and hope to find words in my own ink.
you'll stand right here and give me all the ammunition i need,
carving my skin from bone as you speak,
for i know this is your exit interview.
i will be a skeleton of a woman,
and that's just fine because at least i'll have been skinned by the handsomest man to leave this apartment.
my magnum opus,
i'll trace the blood with my fingers
and try to write about how it felt to have your attention for a moment.
you'll leave and stain the carpet with crimson footprints,
but that's just fine because there will be a painting to match my poem.

In spring, the poplars enchant
the city with fluff, our clothes
are decorated, we are halfway
through Lent, it's a party

The winter witch moves through the streets
to her high chair
at the stake, everyone laughs
the brass band starts, and we
dance in the smelly smoke
that blows in all directions
it will be a year as always
good and bad, we celebrate it

In the summer we beat the flies
off our faces, everything stays
as it is, the thick tree
gets a little thicker again

Uncle climbs in, he shouts
to the sky and over the land
'I want a wife, I want a wife'
He throws stones at the men
on the ladder, the nurses come
I remember it all well
I'm now an old witch myself
with fluff snow in my hair

1.
Long, empty days flee into the past.
No agenda.
No impulse.
No telos.
No soul.

My whitewashed angel claps
her silver hands.
I hear a dead man’s cry
sink slowly in the sands.

A mortar round pounds
the trenches at Verdun.
His heart stopped, Edward Thomas
blinks and falls.
Robert Frost tosses an apple
across the mending wall.

2.
Akhmatova mourns a faithless love.
Stalin disfigures her features
with a blood-stained dove.

Poetry extends beyond
the horizon of time.
Its foundation transcendental,
its meat image and rhyme.

3.
Empty days escape into the ticking void:
a metronome made meaningless,
a vacuum of joy.

Seeds sprout inside a driveway.
Dirt blackens in the rain.

Now knows no start or finish.
Eternity tightens its grip in vain.