Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.

Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.

The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.  

The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.  
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.

What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.

Meeting someone,
someone that strikes my fancy,
I take my soul out of my pocket--
expecting them to do the same.

My soul,
like origami that has been folded and refolded,
is worn at the edges and moth eaten,
has burns and scorch marks,
alcohol and coffee stains,
greasy finger prints,
smudge marks,
and small bits torn from it…

Together-- there on the street,
we compare souls on the corners of the world.
Some souls are almost new--
starched and pressed,
in a vacuum sealed bag.

Others, when taken out,
are even more used up than mine--
some break and blow apart in the wind
like glowing confetti,
leaving a dull grey stare in its owner’s pale eyes.

Then after we have compared souls
I fold mine back into its origami balloon shape
and put it back
in my pocket.

Souls are not a different distant object
they do not fit in a lock box.
Every act of compassion…
or apathy,
hunger…
or gluttony,
love…
or ****,
The mundane…
or the extraordinaire
creates a new mark,
a new fold,
a different shape,
a different you….

...than existed just a moment before.

I love that you love me.
     italicEven if you deny expressing it.
I love that you care so deeply.
     italicEven if you won't accept caring in return.
I love that you want me desperately.
     italicEven if you deny yourself my wanting you.
I love that you think like me.
     italicEven if we won't talk about it.
I love that our love is so deep.
     italicBut held in a cage.

I started to write a poem
expressing all the beauty
that is between us.
But then I realized
what I was really created
was a "ten things" list.
Our love is NOT a Facebook note.
I won't believe that.

Polyamory

You see,
the poly I am
is different then the poly
I want to be.  
For me,
poly is about being free,
but also
not shirking from responsibility.  
After all,
who wants to fall in love
with some ape in a tree?  
Definitely not me!
So you see,
Poly is about love, for me.
It's about creating an endless sea
Of compassion and connectivity.
But, it also creates safety
For your poly family.
And if doesn't well...
Your guaranteed some misery.

But the poly I am
is different then the poly I wish I were.
The poly I am
is hidden and sore.
Secretive and pale
it seems to only lap gently
along loves shore.
Instead of armor made from belief
I steal bits of time like a thief.