How does one climb up a mountain,
that great peak of the lover's self-doubt?

After wandering elsewhere for so long,
am I now found?

How can one convince a lover of her beauty,
nay, of her value?

I, Tiresias, though blind, could answer,
yet one must find thine own, dear worm.

Shall I tell you of that dark valley I love,
the rivulets of touch that reach down in to abandon?

When I speak of her body, she laughs;
when I speak of her heart, she tells me to shut up.

Yet, when she laughs I am overcome,
and those long nights spent speaking...cementing a meaning.

I am one apart, a man not comfortable in
full regalia, finding vulgarity resentful.
(Especially since I think myself ******)

Her resentment of her own body,
how shall I convince her otherwise?

She works with children,
yes children full of the need to be heard,
yet felled by genetics and denied
the right and ability to speak.

The connection between beautiful soul,
and wondrous mind,
and body of salvation.

Longing, longing, to be whom she needs.

And yet I know that I never will be a man
with a history or a story; that arrow through family
which she clings to.

All that I am is held in these insignificant flames,
a soul meeting another
and flowering.

Why don't you want me
to do something with
my hands,
these hands that can do better
than my cheap words?

I've never tried to pawn myself
off as the person you need in your life,
even though that's the want you
throw me when you eye me during
the obviously empty workday.

You ought to know though,
I really am not what you need,
not what you want,
not the man that can make things
the way you wish them to be.

In reality I'm just a sorry drunk
trying to wish my life back together,
and it's your misfortune
that I happened upon you
when you were fleeing wolves.

Away from the white Stork feathers
Often seemed to be gentle breeze
On Kans grasses
Superficial white clouds
Small dinghies on the river
To navigate the life

Far away on the bridge
The Silent movement of the Brahminy kite
Southern breeze blew
Tilting the tall grasses toward the North
Leak of the light fell into the Kans,
Into the Soft green grasses

Sunlit mingled with light fog
Seek heavenly feeling
Without the knowledge
The lips Stir of

Walking beside the river
Barefooted
In the air Kestrel's mystic music
The river running with full of chime

What are the forms of you!
Thee bind me with deception!
What a Strange tune!
What those thirsty words!

So that I draw your image
Moving away from the shadows
Soft light blended with the estuary
Away,
Little by little,
To see your face
Like the rig of Ship

Behind the path
A magical dream
Seems like a White Shirt  
That I had left in the Kans grasses

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm going out on a limb and guessing that you've always been the one to be there for people when they needed you. But, it's really, really hard, to let anybody be there for you. I'm not talking about needing money or anything either. But just talking, and having somebody listen. You told me that's what you wanted, that's what you needed, and yet every time you get a bit too close to the heart of it, you stop speaking. You need somebody to talk to, and I need somebody to listen to. You don't have to trust me, just know that I understand how incredibly hard it is for people who usually do the listening, to be listened to."

Ex Nihil
Warning!
This site contains explicit pictures
of someone you know.

So is this it,
the Magic Theatre
supposedly advertised
for Madmen only?

Explicit indeed,
bad dreams and sensual whispers,
perhaps just a breaking;
a dissolving of one self.

Where you go,
I dare not follow,
for I am not of those people
and moreover
they know it.

Where I go,
you don't want to follow,
for reasons I don't understand
and which you
won't explain.

You want the city,
the newness and the lights,
adventure being a new bar
every night?

I want the forest,
the oldness and the twilight,
adventure being a new song
every night.

Halloween night
this last year;
I saw a relative of yours
run alone down the middle
of your street;
Red Fox in the City.

Smoking on your balcony,
with a bear of a man
we yelled inside that your
family was at hand.

I sat on your couch
and talked with you,
watched you watch others,
and I can't remember
anything you said.

I do remember,
when you took me to your room
in search of cards
because I needed to be
doing something with my hands.

You pulled boxes from
your closet and I met your cat,
(I hoped he liked me; he was pretty cool,
didn't enjoy the noise of a party,
same as me in that regard)
we didn't find cards
but we did find a vase of flowers.

You laughed when I asked
who gave them to you,
as if you buying them for yourself
wasn't something I
should be sad about.

Perhaps that's why
I bought you carnations
when your Grandmother died.

I can't help but feel
that I didn't meet you by accident,
but knowing that we will
never love each other
merely adds to my confusion.

There's a low roar in my ears
as I sit here now,
knowing that I care about you
for purely selfish reasons;
as if by being good to you
I could erase selfishness and
ignorance from my past.

In a final note
of outright anguish,
I wish that I in my childishness,
had the courage to show you
the things I have written
for you...my friend.

"You can afford to be a romantic because you're self-sufficient." I wish that had been told to me years ago, before I turned in on myself. Slowly I'm coming back, having reduced myself almost to nothing. Hollowed out and worn, looking straight through people when they talk to me.
I don't have a narrative for what brought me here. Just images, silent pictures, exaggerated expressions. I was somewhere else, and now I'm here, with no bridge between. I was someone else, and now I'm this other person and I don't recognize either of them. Living a life that has no anchor to it, nothing to wrap my soul around.
I bought new tennis shoes today, laced them up and ran. I haven't done that in years, but my body remembered, fell back in to the smooth rhythm that used to eat up miles almost effortlessly. Only a couple for me today, and my cartilage bereft knees hating me, but it was worth it.
Friday I walked through a forest in the rain again. Smelled it, tasted it, was moved by it. An old friend not spoken with for many years. An old magic I thought I had lost forever.
I am being brought back to life by something I don't understand, like I'm being willed into an existence by some force I don't have a name for. My hands itch. And I know this feeling, this wanting. A desire to create things, to plant trees, raise up fountains, give joy. As if by some transient alchemical process I could refute cruelty, transmute pain into happiness, heal broken hearts. I know I can do none of these things though, have tried before and failed, many times. Maybe whoever it is that brought me here can.

.
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
                   Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,

Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.