Masturbatory poetry doesn't get anyone else off
Doesn't lead to pregnancy or abortion
Isn't about love or deep human emotions;
It's rather mechanical, and can go on for a long time-
Rather pointlessly,
And it's embarrassing
To be caught indulging in it, needlessly
When you've already done five pieces today
Maybe you should just give that hand a rest?
Masturbatory poetry can cause quite a mess.

To another shirking duty do I die
Swarmed by specious crowding thoughts that sped  
We wed in black, so dreaded black to tie  
The altars bones of white that lined our bed  
And followed constellations in our heads.  

My addled weight of whetstone you've become  
With tons of stones in wooden bladed sling  
Past summers clouded face hung heaven's sun  
On bark you tried to dry the deadest things  
And on my strumming soul threadbare you'd sing.  

The nightmares ran past colored vats of dye  
As shifting shapes geometrized the rune  
What dyed the pigment in your furthest eye  
Was joined with the paler canvas tones
And cracked the varnished face our pebbled moon.

There are people to whom
all your words are just the pause
that's interrupting their own talking


There are others that see
the pearls and poisons of your days
as just another act that curtains rise and fall upon


But to some, we are like the lone bird
that's slowly disappearing against the farthest horizon
even as unseen worlds grow large inside of it

The sun comes out from behind the clouds,
And I become tangent for seconds; mere minutes,
As the arc of rays reaches deeper inside,
Excavating myself, from me:
I tread old memories, on borrowed time;
Friends and loved ones, all borne away:
Am I but the pale ghost, of yesterday?

Tangent debacles I inherit from your stream;
Your face is otherworldly, inside of my dreams.

Shimmering infinity of warp and woof;
Tapestries uncurled by creation's hook.

Recorded epiphanies and pertinent facts,
Of life and death, proceeding on track.

Truth and reality's mortal refrains,
Embodied in man, so we'll know them again

I looked through eyes, were never cruel;
O, but their looking long was naught!
Though people may have thought me fool,
I looked through eyes, were never cruel
All that for loneliness, was my school;
And by no friends, were ever sought:
I looked through eyes, were never cruel-
O, but their looking long was naught!

Time is short, Jesus said:
Before the **** crows thrice,
Eyes burning like ten thousand suns
Weeping at the wailing wall, stretching
Across a valley of broken sighs.

Time is short, how could we forget
The child we smothered, inside of us;
Dumbed him down with memorization,
With bus route schedules,
Black-booked itineraries.

Time is short, and full of woe
As the evil of the day triumphs again,
And our grief is always sufficient unto us:
It fills up the raging emptiness-
When it comes knocking on our door,
We no longer act surprised.

A dinosaur keeps stomping through my head,
Giant rhythmic beats pound in my ears.
A coral snake hunts me nightly in my bed
In gloom, he flicks his forked tongue and stares.
Long white necks are peering around corners,
Their bodies never even have to bend;
The necks like flexible tubing find my shadow-
I wish these nightly nightmares would just end.

Floating voices speaking ambiguous English,
Convene to hold their meetings in the air.
I try to sleep but sleep is not forthcoming;
I wish they wouldn't have their meetings here.
The worst has got to be the shouting voices,
That awaken me when I am deep asleep,
They call my name as if a fire encroaches-
Where comes this awful crew that I now keep?

The moon owns all women:
We feel it's tautness, as it's pulling us
Into the fertile loam fields, of reproduction,
A year at a time, until high tide finally arrives.

And at birthing time, we can sense it's shadowy silver fingers
Prodding us, wanting us to deliver to it's schedules only;
Like it orders the oceans to and fro, with it's nearness
And animals sense it's fog of breath behind them, urging them on to madness.

At certain times of the month, and it is such an on-again off-again sort,
Either completely out there, or hidden like a thread of light, barely showing
Through hidden doorways tiny cracks; unwilling to reveal a centimeter more
All the while influencing a million more invisible things we would never associate
At all; and makes one almost willing to believe in astrology's claims.

And once I saw the moon beside your face, and could no longer resist
It's pulling; and when it told me to go into your arms, I obeyed-
Because I knew it was more ancient and  more powerful, than any of our sawdust brains.

When once you find that sun
After searching for years
Going on only what you have heard, but never seen
With your own eyes; tales that brightness would make you blind,
Listening ear to door for that one footfall
When sun ascends the last horizon and appears
At first you don't recognize it's splendor;
Bearing the brilliant crown that you once were told of
Back in your deepest dark your loneliest hour
And you are startled when it recognizes your face
With small cupping hands of warmth
And kisses your countenance a golden highlight
From it's igneous soul of ancient flame
Glowing it x-rays your heart with it's shimmering visage
A benediction falls upon your life to never court darkness again
Henceforth you will live in the light; sing only his praises
And rue the night, and hate the shadowed
Strive all your life to never feel shame
Of what the unblinking light will reveal;
Your own humble pilgrimage that light shines through
Never dimmed by moon, comet or cloud
Because it is made out of heaven, made out of you
And because it holds not earth.

your two eyes worship some evening farther sky
than the four winds around us, breathing with our sighs
perfumed taste tantalizes, in metered measure
as waves of warm skin rise, toward strong pleasure
only where the sacred kiss touches desire;
hunger where your quickened heart ascend even higher
as my lingering love gives voice to your song,
waves lapping restless shores, all night long:
then a still, white dove lies, with entrancing smile
underneath the sly moon's beaming magic wiles.

A ribbon of notes float past the dawn
Childhood's gone, like a long-lost song;
Did you have to grow up, to find your place
And of that child, is there left one trace?

Their eyes are watching you, from the past
Why'd you have to grow up so fast?

Where are the prints from those tiny hands,
Busy with the work of becoming a man,
And where are the people who loved the child,
The innocent one, so sweet and mild?

Their eyes are watching you, from the past
Why'd you have to grow up so fast?

Putting all of childhood's things away,
You had to grow up and save the day,
Was it worth all the hurry and fuss
Along the way, what happened to trust?

Their eyes are watching you, from the past
Why'd you have to grow up so fast?

We hurry them up, from birth to death
Until they've got no time for breath
But something that precious should be cradled long,
Inside our hearts, like a perfect song.

Everything touches every other,
Nothing stays safe in itself;
The ghost moans his fate was unchosen,
The captain, his enemy's stealth.

Fate doesn't rewind in the darkness,
Day doesn't withold it's surprise,
Birth doesn't await our 'hello',
Death doesn't hold out for 'goodbye'.

In the mirror, behold your opposite:
The antagonist of all that you do.
His left your right, his day your night;
Whatever you think, he sees through.

On the ground, stretches out your shadow,
Who follows you through thick and thin:
They'll bury you one day, and he'll go away
And not count it as loss or win.

The universe has rhythms
To rock itself to sleep;
Praying Jews at nightfall,
In front of stony walls;
A slow-circling hawk
By a fortress deep,
And a dozing child
Where a woman weeps.

The universe has secrets
It touch with guilty hands;
Buried unmarked grave,
Of one who was not saved;
A war to break at morning,
When death will have his day,
Words of peace on dying lips
They can never say.

To he whose fingers itch to feel her breath,
Dragging her boldly, through tall fields of grass;
She whose flowering bough is stillborn death,
The graveyard plot's the last place she will pass.

Beauty is the short answer of the muse,
To meet the cymbal crash of longing storm;
It's headlong rush, to light the shortest fuse;
Frightening fury, to douse the trees lantern.

The last hour springs, like whistling in the wind
Pliant captive, makes her way toward him.
His grasp less tender, than were any vise
Broken in his grasp, her bright eyes grown dim.

If even love could be borrowed or stole-
All live in danger of filling that hole.

Death is not some awful saw blade, coming to sever you from this life;
Death is an untroubled sleep, an unobserved nonawakening.
We don't miss the life, the love; we do not know to miss anything,
We are as asleep; asleep the same as before birth,
Before not being alive came to be called death.
Only those we leave behind may miss our life, and only for so long
As life keeps beating out it's kaleidoscopic moments through them.

Since when is becoming less than you were, but as much
As you used to be, to be viewed as only a loss?
The first gift of life came unexpectedly,
So for all we know, there may be further gifts waiting to be bestowed;
And whether or not we can remember
To remember the living that we once did, in between the forgetting,
Only god himself can know;  this god who is rumored
To have a longer memory than any of us, in all our inherent weakness.

Is death long, you ask;  is it very long?
Death is only the one second, between forgetting and awakening:
It's something you've done every night of your life-
And memory is only the persistent dream of awakening.

Some kind of music calls me;
Recalls me,  to your side;
Some primal airborne reverie
Fresh out of space and time.

Some mostly memorable note
That reminds of something far;
Much farther than a memory;
Fast-fading as a star.

Past daybreaks blurry edge,
I know it will not beckon-
Time counts not it's loss, the same
As beating hearts would reckon.

Our actions are the prayer, unceasing,
Of love’s creation which is sought-
New things arising every moment,
From the past and future wrought.

Midst all those, in good and evil,
We must avoid being caught-
Imprisoned by our own mind’s children,
All our strivings come to naught.

When our attention sharp and true is,
Unwavering hours of peace are bought-
Be careful when you once un-sheathe it,
The terrible, swift sword of thought.

Welcome, to your long dying-
Unsaid words, empty gestures
The substance you always searched for
Was never real, and you discover
We will all be dying alone
Of grief, of the faux, negligible existence
Everything taken away at the end
Dark holocaust swallow us whole
And strangle the last sound we make
Welcome, to nights of tremulous tears
Inside the winding cloth you've made:
The teeming brain's multiforme emotions
The day you were born, an empty place was created also
You were never too rare or special to die
The train whistle announces you've been left behind
To contemplate your impersonal end
We are clothed of the same dust
All arrows point in the same direction
Both the high and low road are a mobius strip
Eternal life, but a dream of dimensional matter
Held for a short time in *******-
Time on any scale is nearly invisible to us
Welcome, to your long dying
Which is but the first breath of non-existence.

Wind down my sun, my distant flame,
The solar wind has caught my pain.
On altars rare, of beaten gold,
I dare the goal, a coffer bold.

Burn not my eyes, my hapless face,
When at your smoking visage, gaze.
No sun spot mar your perfect shape;
Your withheld fury, theory's ****.

It's but your patience, keeps us breathing;
To ice we turn, at your slight leaving,
Though devils dance upon your gas,
A noble field, you'll be at last.

Let me forget transient sadness
Let me reinvent me
And not be too small inside

Let me grow fat with happy
Be tender with those
Who grieve

Forgiving of children
And men

And into other hearts
My own heart weave

Let me forget what's unhappy
A day's such a miracle born

Who knew existence would happen
Or that it would happen so soon

Let me love while time
Has patience, for lovers

Let me grow while Earth
Still has room, for flowers

Open my heart
To see others pain

And try to make a difference
Before I have to leave again

I pray for wings, for my heart to fly
I pray the most, in blue breaths of sky

July 5 2010

Science is full of many odd tales;
Like the woman, cast on me her spell:
She whipped off her pants,
And we did quite a dance-
For she had an opposable tail.

When the slow wave creeps into your sight,
A blue-tinged blanket of reflected light,
Or a cloud shyly peeps the sun's own face
But in your reverie, leaves no trace;
Or a lightning torch x-rays the sky,
It's echoed voice like a rumbled sigh;
When trees wave graceful, arching arms
And the breeze unleash it's earnest charm:
It's angels I've sent, you understand
Of the wind and sky, the sea and land
So knowing them, you'll not forget
That inside love lives no regret
Not for a moment; no matter how far
And so Earth sings, how beloved you are.

We men at best are only crimson kings
Who’re caught between the diadem and throne;
We wield the power, weep at what it means-
Miles to conquer, and none of it is home.

We laugh at jokes and toasts, as it's expected,
Reward well both the Jester and the Count
Though little things of kingdom get neglected,
While we the weary battle foils must mount.

But there's one crown of curls, upon one head,
That I'd go farther than the oldest tales;
She sleeps so near now, in her downy bed-
Most men stay free, inside their private hells.

Some night I'll bribe the Moon, in his far space
And build within my heart, a special place..

Lost in the blue, trying to winnow the way to you:
Swift flies the sickle; the aim be sharp and true;
The thresher dividing the wheat from the dross,
The clearing, it gleams where the golden rows close.
The day may be long but with scarce a complaint
So long as the grain is kept free of all taint.
With long winter shadows returning again,
The laid up fall stores soon turn sour and thin
Again will I dream of toil spent in the sun
I'll count all the hours till winter's undone.

There is some comfort to be found
In the myriad small rituals
The day clothes itself with
Those moments spent together
Follow their natural course-
Me tinkering with minutiae;
You getting lost in books:
And the apparent forgetfulness
With which we treat each other
Is the galactic glue
Anchoring us in space together
Tethering us to the low gravity
Of inconsequential distraction
There is none other
Can be so artfully neglected,
Camouflaged among the days loose ends
Even as, following along each others wake
We're holding to the years as tightly as we can.

Beware; I'll break your heart, she said
If you ever turn aside
Or break your ways from mine.

He gave his word and hand,
He took her to the steeple;
A simple golden band

Was all that bound his world with hers.
They lived as man and wife,
Their inner world unquiet.

The love a lie, for she craved gold,
A status-seeker to the end-
Her heart stayed cold.

He left her for a warmer one,
Whose eyes held truth for all her days;
Not cold, this one more like the sun.

Beside an angry sea,
In rage, she met the softer one
And told, his love's for me.

She threw the ring out over the waves,
She cursed the promise he had made
And then she seized the other's hand-

I promised then, to break his heart
She said, and dragged her over the cliff
Below, where the waters broke apart.

On rocks they found them, side by side
On one's face tears; the other's dried-
For one still lived, while one had died.

Who lived or died, nobody knows,
He took them both back home with him
And he was never seen again.

They say if you pass by at night,
You'll hear a strange laugh, then a cry;
For one was darkness, one was light.

For life is death, without our love,
And death is long, though ill or well-
But peace is granted seldom, there.

Right now you're only a photo, and a distant voice:
But I have your wall's pattern
Committed to long term memory;
I'm sure I will see it in my dreams sometimes.

But you are much larger than all of that;
Than tiles and towels in a bowl.
In your sphere of influence,
My little world quakes.

Under the coming of such imminence
I feel the forward air rushing up
Just ahead of the subway's arrival
On it's familiar path, to the welcoming arms of the station.

I can feel the doors as they swish open,
And a million thoughts starting to fly in and out
Like so many frantic travelers
Going anywhere on a nameless, fragrant summer's day.

Behind it all is the transfiguration
Of a pair of eyes, that I seem to know best
From the inside out, from somewhere unshadowed,
Where time does not need to count on it's fingers.

And already I know that it is not the words
That I will get the chance to say to you,
That will haunt me; but all the thousands of words
That we will never say-

So that they will hang open-mouthed,
There in the stagnant stillness, where nothing moves,
And where nothing has its being any more
When those doors have closed forever.

Heterodyning, between word and thought-
Entraining the brain;
The voice dictating,
The fingers scrabbling.

I am only the burnt toast
Of this universe,
That has a craving
To recognize itself
Through temporal eyes.

Unwilling the pain of shared listening,  their flesh one
go the closed voices only into lovers warm drunken secrets
painful of imagination’s beauty, which knows rare echoes of the words
their lips listened, covetous of real angels token posturing
lovely sweat pouring, like children's hearts pound effortlessly
paths again melting, into the delicate thrill of the still-ordinary
already the transformation, into sweet bruising elation
playful caressing of the passions we empty summer lives into
where all existence strolls fragrant, blossoms from the discovery of it
building up bliss, ceasing breathing, his first friction becoming
imagined time-telling giddy kisses, given and held by her eyes
in this electric universe, purchased time and again
with breath of the impossible imagined.

The flame has softer fingers,
Than petals from a flower,
And it's memory is less
For every hour that it burns,
And the flower isn't jealous,
Of whomever enjoys it's beauty;
While the fire consumes most anything,
And none of it is spurned.

But flowers know almost nothing,
Of how a flame gets started;
And a fire knows even less
Of how a flower grew
Still, they have a slight respect,
In regarding, each the other;
As if each had certain knowledge
Flames and flowers are too few.

So there's a lesson for us,
If we care to pay attention
To living forests forming
Their own funeral pyres:
As the flame hates not rare beauty.
And the flower's not faint-hearted;
If you've never yet been burned:
You don't have to fear the fire.

What are pleasure and pain to us,
Held in the grip of time's hand, as we are?
Hostage to the intervention of circumstance,
Or privy to the secrets of youth or age;
What do we know, and who could we tell it to,
Even if somebody wanted to listen to us?

What am I, that I should be walled in by your eyes;
When you could choose, out of the entire world,
Why choose something tangent, perishable,
Entangled in this solitude of emotion?
Our paths are lonely, though we pass close by,
Caught up in our own brand of darkness,
Suffering our own unquiet silences.

We are impenetrable forests
Lost inside of a fairy tale,
Dreamed up by an imaginary god
Who is so long ago,
So far away, by now..

Hold onto the sea
Turn the edges square
Pull the wrinkled waves
To smooth the motion there

Placate the burning sun
Mist it with a spray
Release it's tension'd torque
As it accosts the day

Soothe my tattered heart
On it's loom of woe
Blooming out the sails
To make the stall let go

Sea owns not the waves
Sun owns not the burn
Ships cannot be saved
For love is never earned

Have I forgotten, or will I forget
How to love you;
There, where the flowers kiss the earth,
Where the shade holds the trees rooted,
Where a single bird call can enclose the yearning
Of all creation.


The tranquil petal-faces bent, in the early evening gloom,
Stirring themselves to an effervescent breeze;
Ancient as dew fall on catacombs,
Where ancient Romans loved and lost,
Their earthly joys too soon flown.


Our fleeting reflections fall
Like evening mist over the lake,
And evaporate like a dream at morning.


And how insubstantial a dream seems
Once we've awakened;
Where flowers kiss and trees take root,
In their uneasy compromise.

My words are hymns that I paint for you,
Vespers chanting your sacred name;
Incense rises before your face-
And prayers I would say, for no other.

If your eyes were brown or green or blue,
I suppose it would be the same;
The eyes are what give a face it's grace-
But are never the same, in another.

Your eyes will still be my light, it's true
Whether the moon may wax or wane;
For in your eyes I see a trace
Of the one I would know, as lover.

There's nothing to say, nothing to do,
There's much to lose, and nothing to gain;
But deep inside there remains a place-
Just for you, that I keep under cover.

White birds cover the sea of the parking lot;
No sails fly, and clouds are few between.
The air is hot, as they fight for rights to insects;
On oceans of cement, they drift like sailor's dreams.

White birds wait, for baking asphalts cooling;
Evening falls, and they vanish in the gloom.
Dew falls down, and with it ocean's ceilings,
While overhead, rides the face of smiling moon.

Ancient are the eyes,
Ancient the tongue,
Ancient the battles
Bring the world undone.

There’s war, in our blood,
There’s blood, on our hands;
Blood in the rivers,
Blood on the land.

There's just one thing
Worth fighting for,
In the bloodied world
And the future gore;

A man and woman
Remake a world divine;
For around their loving
All futures twine.

The world is a catastrophe always evolving,
But somehow it must be more
Than it's life and death,
It's breathing and suffocating
In the fullness of youth or old age?

Can't it be more than beauty and ugliness,
Truth and falsehood,
Peace and war?

If you become very still
You can feel all of the people who are dying inside you
Right this minute

I'm reading along, like a galloping fawn,
And then something trips me, as I hurtle along;
I land smack on my head, and then I look back;
There's something has tripped me, right there on the track-

Well, it's a stray 'thee'; and as pretty as you please,
That all of a sudden popped up, like the breeze;
I was reading along, quite all unaware,
And suddenly - boom! a 'thee' did appear.

I gather my courage and try to get up,
But before I can manage, to pick up my stuff,
It happens again; who would have thunk it;
I stand up and hit my head, square on a lunkett!

Looking above, I can see why and how:
It's because I have bumbled, into a stray 'thou';
Who would have guessed, it would cause me to blunder;
Cause the last time I saw one, was late eighteen-hundred!

The last one is worst; you know it, of course;
Almost fell on my head like an anvil, the curse!
This one more insidious, than all the others;
When a 'thine' smacks your backside, you'll not want another!

So be careful, when reading the words of the day,
And watch where you walk, even walking away;
For, if you're not careful, you could have some pain
When the archaic words come, to beat you again.

Even dead poets need some credit
For words well done, no matter how long
Ago they enchanted, don't take it for granted
For saying their name, other folks
Discover their fame; get better acquainted
Even dead poets deserve some credit.
And their writings left untainted.

Even dead poets should have their moment
Of reckoning, some homage paid to their efforts
Their art of word and phrase, even in other days
To honor their good name, is only fair
It's the same if today you or me
Had our works stolen, and our dignity
Even dead poets still have their vanity.

We drove by the cemetery in a different part of town
Searching for another restaurant where we didn't really want to go
And suddenly I remembered you were there; that is, your clam shell was there
Carefully wrapped and placed underground, somewhere among the thousands
Your inexpensive namecard merely flat brass; invisibly close to the ground
And I thought of the oddness of life;
Here I was with two people you never got to meet,
Who meant everything to me, as you did back when,
And indeed always will. And back in my touchy days of grief
I could not have envisioned a happy day
On a drive beside where you lay,
Busy composing your still reverie for the ages.

So life goes on, however we wish it would not at times,
And though it is difficult to believe, we do get better, by and by.
And though the Earth will not remember one flower
That we knew together,
I realized the cemetery ground is made hallowed
By all the love and faithful memories being poured into it:
I'm pouring in mine now-
Who knows, perhaps it will flood?

Seas twinkle and there is a trace
Of diamonds in the sun's bright face
Day comes again; there is no death
Inside the garland of your breath.

In the temples praises sung
From dawn to dusk, Padme Hung
Gods and demons and their ilk
All churn the sea of milk.

My God is hungry, he stabs your God;
The people are up in arms,
Though they say your God will raise again-
No gods were really harmed.

No Gods died to further a plot;
They were not experimented on,
And resemblances to people living or dead-
Must always be frowned upon.

The Gods used to own the whole world once;
We gave them dominion over fish and fowl;
But their pedestals toppled lean centuries ago,
And now they can only nod and bow.

if you have something real to say to this world,
something else will come along to fill up all
the available time; truth is the one thing
not allowed down here

the self is a repository that has been
collecting things since the first man
had the first thought, and if you don't
believe this, the primal fear of deadly snakes
still remains very much awake
in our dreams to this day as a warning
of imminent danger

your thoughts get strung out
from place to place
when you travel, and others
can read them like signposts
along the highway

i can feel you arriving before
I know you are traveling this way,
and the dying can be felt leaving their
bodies before they realize it
themselves; departures and
journeys are not what they seem
down here

loud music frightens in the presence
of others; the loudness will unveil
fragility and capability they did not
know you possessed

because I can be so deadly
at the heart of me, I must pretend
to the innocence of a child
or risk execution

Truth, beauty, justice in your words;
A worship of the sky unfurls.
Through Michael's eyes
The heaven's turn;
Of his pure light,
Some oceans burn.

Mankind has visions of a kind,
To strike a fancy in the mind;
Our heads turn too,
Like cogless wheels;
And in some eyes
See heaven stilled.

I catch the light upon your brow,
Though some ships sail, without a prow.
And when you steer,
And when you go,
Subdues all fears
In those below.

A soul is light and bears no weight;
It's courage challenge hapless fate:
In starfields far
And quantums deep,
You've miles to fly
Before you sleep.

Sing words; that the body of time
  Gives to eloquent mind it's due,
Sing words; the creation of bones that
  The body's own day shines through.

Sing time; that the world not catch fire
  While we're treading it's rhythmed core,
Sing time; that your lies and your ages
  Are the sign of a closing door.

Sing bones; we'll put up a big stone
  To show you when your last days are done,
Sing bones; and your loved ones will gaze
  At that last place you lost the sun.

we string up our words of pearl
dangle them, on finest fishing line:
butterflies, and large birds of prey
both are born from the same effort;
a monster, or a holy man
enter in through the same channel
and even though love and hate wrestle
every wee-hour of the dawn
to see which will reign that day,
we are never fearful of the weapon
we hold in our own hand
but only of what they might hold, in theirs.

Every house has a sun and moon,
And a little porcelain cup,
And a little silver spoon;
Every house has laughter and pain,
And feels the kiss of a needed rain.

Every house has a pet or two,
A cat in the tree,
A dove that coo;
Every house has a little mouse,
Lives in a hole he never comes out.

Every house has a window or two,
And some grass and trees,
And a sky that's blue;
Every house has a child that dreams,
As he plucks at raw reality's seams.

His voice had the strangely broken timbre of a child,
Of too many souls, wandering lost in his throat
Too many hands grasping onto his for help-
I knew we couldn't last.

He had psychedelically tinted neurons
Well concealed within a brave countenance of smiling canvas
He had a magnetic core, of hot iron and paper mache
He slung words together like magic hash

I'm still haunted, in love with all the words;
There are thousands of phrases to fall for,
Before the world closes up shop forever-
But today, I wish for him only peace.

The sun will rise again
Like unintended consequence,
And arrive empty of expectation

Alien suns will navigate,
Like my heart searches for you
The frontier of the unsuspected

Please kiss me once more with light
You the everything, I the nothing
And distant stars will show the path;
In this world, all is connected.