What am I when compared to forever?
I am a speck, a point, a spot of
spilled ink on the manuscript of time.

I tend to think of my life as an arc,
dipping in its genesis, reaching a mountainous ******,
then finally sagging into an inevitable end.

But what is
               forever?

It is that same arc, stretched
to form a line, thin and smooth and all-reaching,
never starting nor stopping.

When I think of my being,
flung onto that line and never removed,
I realize the scoop of my understanding, so
small, so blinded.

What am I to this line of forever?
What is this cup I drink from in the
context of a time which never ends?
What am I? Why am I? What is
this book? Text printed on a dead tree?
What is that? What are the markings
of my pen on this line unending?

What is the point of you and me?
Together forever, but what does that mean?
Can you even begin to express the vast
expanse of  forever? Being always, no end in sight?

If you shot me down and place me in the ground,
you will not stop my soul.
Do you really believe that scattered earth on
my cold flesh can end what you did not begin?
My soul is radioactive, it permeates skin, it
seeps into dimensions we are not given sight for.

My forever is not a burial place, but
a large room, extending forever in all directions
you can see. It is a room of light and of sight.
I can't comprehend my forever, because I'll never
see it coming.

If you shot my down and place me in the ground,
you haven't fooled the line of time. Darkness
hasn't won, and my soul still isn't done.

It's hard for me to surrender to the hand of eternity, to
rest my head in the embrace of the unknown,
the x, the missing variable.

Scholars and madmen may fight their entire lives
to solve that most-desired x, but their
method is imperfect.
For it is in the embrace of the strange, the dark,
the abstract, the obscure that we find the answer.

****!
I cannot find my pen,
it's lost again in the depths of my bag.
This always happens
when I need to write down

something life-altering,
a good quote or a quality website.
I can never seem to find my pesky pen

so my life goes on un-altered
and baggy through the leg.

I know not why my suite-mate insists
On bolting back and forth between his room and mine,
Nothing about his self but a crooked smile
And a towel bunched in tight fists.

with such profound beauty there must
also be a profound darkness
which cannot be shaken

So I went up to bed,
Not knowing anything,
Save for the pants I was to wear
In the morning.

the roundness of your being
the curl of hair
and of eyes, lips, inside a circling face
the small fingers which poke me
or which become hands that hold mine
on the floor of a small room
laid out across the carpet

our bodies
drawn out into a single line
your hands, your eyes
holding words and secrets
like the tiny cups they seem to be
held out in front of me
dry
asking to be filled

and I
ever in need of a vessel