She combed her hair with the night sky
& then let loose those bits of stray galaxy that had embedded themselves in the wisdom of her follicles.

You are a blur to me
I cannot remember how many times we have kissed or how often you say my name but I remember the feel of those lips and the way you sound when they are speaking words only for me. I dont know how long I have spent in your arms but I know that hours are not long enough and I know that when you laugh at something I say my heart skips at least three beats. I know that your every movement is vivid and fluorescent to me. I dont know how many times you breathe in a minute but I know that your heart sounds like steady drum and it quickens when I tell you I love you.  And I do mon amour, I do.

O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

Subterranean; flowing like a constant river,
Covered in metres of memes, and hidden.

A man's tears.
Waterfalls falling behind walls of mountain's flesh.
Poetry in forbidden books piled high and burned

By censorist historians.

You pick a scortched piece of page from my footprint,
Blow on it faintly; as if dust off of leaf gold,

And read, when you think I'm not
Watching.

Leave scars on the cheeks of her man.
Scars deeper than any left by angry
Fists, or gravel.
Deeper than those slapped on by wedding
Ringed fingers; now naked.

A woman's tears.
Each heavier than an ocean.
Deeper too,
The chambers in which their source and
Remedy rest.

Outside the walls of which
Water falls.

Each drip-drip-drip
A vertical sea in the uncynical/
Cynical eyes of
Timelessness and male poetry.

The most interesting person
I have met was the one
Least focused on being just that.

Paper beats rock.
It never tries to rain.

I think I broke my brain
Trying to remember
Life before enlightenment.
Golden lights escape through cracks.
Soulness inside.
And forever.
Sun.

Paperchase and a hundred tiny blankets are the moon, but I'd take a plane to a tiny island on another earth far from ours and far from our moon. Of course, it holds no comparison. But how could it? How could it when years and years of history and development and discovery have been made about the moon, while finally an organism was found on this tiny island on a tiny earth somewhere so far away from our earth and from our moon. That tiny island's just got to be a little bit closer. It's moving at a snail's pace toward me, but it's moving. And someday, if it's ever possible, maybe I'll go there. I'd take a plane there, if I could. It's just not close enough and I can't afford a rocket. But I would, if it would accept a visitor. Maybe even a resident.

It's nice to daydream about a vacation on an island far, far away. It's so perfect and unique and foreign. Are there other people there? I hope there are not. I would like to be the only one there when I finally arrive.

For now I will keep sending postcards, in hopes they will be received.