Never seen one this lovely, gladdened with the purity of the midnight rain, magnificent she is in all her graces
The whirlwind gave way when her haunches swayed
With palms as soft as the pine, a touch from them sent me on a flight of fantasy
Her peats stood firm as the atlas
To honey no other compare,for it is the sweetest but then you should taste her rosy lips 
And if the zephyrus was mild, then you should hear her speak
The stars were bright but her eyes were the brightest for in them I saw the reason for rainbows
Her face shone so much radiance like the full moon at the peak of her aphrodisiac  
Every wisp of her hair was of the finest silk and when she smiled the world took form
Her aura so distinct as the scented ointment of spikenard

This beauty is all I want to know,for it ignites a quivering sensation in my bones springing forth the passions of my meek soul
For you I would pick the roses of the empyrean

On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.

I cannot say that I write about you
because we are in love,
because you died,  or because you broke my heart;
moths unravel those possibilities like yarn.

You are picked up by fairies,
a powder, the scent discharged by dryer sheets.

To be honest,
I write about you because you did the same to me;
you had me in the crook of your arm,
a dusty novel composed by
southerners, although only read in the north.

I cannot say that I write about you
at all, these verses are not about your existence
but how you could have
opened the world as if it were a book of mine.

Feathers, butterflies—
In old garden wings fluttering,
  .  .  .  Fond angels embrace.

Dear poets,

I am leaving for bootcamp in three days.
I will come back as a sailor and I will still come back as a writer.

I wanted to say that I have adored every minute I have ever spent on this website.
So many words.
So many souls...

I want whoever reads this to remember something while I am gone.
You're beautiful.
You're loved.
And you're ******* awesome.

I will have someone post the address where I am and if anyone hear would like to send me something, it would be appreciated.

Stay you.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread