at the point of entry (explicit)

it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge

when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue

when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!

it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut

the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing

the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give

I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:

come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:

I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry

12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning

Am I really a poet,
If all I ever write about,
Is you?

One of my favorite songs is by a guy named Watsky, it’s called sloppy seconds. It used to mean so much more, but I’ve grown . And now I’m here, and you ring, and I pick up, and it’s all for you.
You told me that it's your fault, but how I have to do this for you. I told you
“But you’re my friend, so I suppose I owe you trying to clean up this mess”
I need to pick up your pain. I’m listening to the song and thinking about all the times that have numbed me to taking up other people’s sloppy seconds but the song always told me
“I don’t care where you've been, how many miles, I’ll still love you”     and so i did.
I still do for some others. Please understand, this is not all  ̶f̶o̶r̶  you.
I stopped you.
I caught this one.
I’m holding this a dustpan for the cremains of this mess and picked up the shattered urn of feelings.
I handed you the broom. Whether you use it or not is your decision.
It’ll get cleaned up in the end, either way.
I WANT TO DO THIS OUT OF LOVE NOT OUT OF PROTECTION.
WHAT THE ****.

I stalked our horoscopes;
I deciphered the coffee grounds.
I even took the time piecing
the broken mirror back together
to read between the cracks,
in hopes I'd receive a sign.

The Universe told me to
stop searching the unknown
for answers I already know.
My coffee grounds suggested
that I needed to sleep, and
the shattered mirror crooned:
"Put yourself back together
before you try to mend another."

there's this idea



and that's about all there is.