for, if indeed i am weeping, beyond
the eye bound to the sight
of a within -
      see me not as weeping must,
for no laughter,
                    no terms of joy equal!
leave me to watch the bounty
of the beauty, as tears and waterfalls
become siamese.
by every touch, by every tear shed,
my heart ushers in a barbaric gnawing
and scream!
           which ventures into
the uknown, and likewise, into a beginning.
of said things, there's only
one reminder to be made:
of father macbeth -
           and indeed,
to bring scotland and allow it to
                                       reign in essex -
upon opening a book, to shed a kiss
upon its binding architecture - stern...
almost like insects, or oysters,
with their exoskeletons -
   kiss upon the book binding turn
of page, and when opened, landing
upon the gravity of macbeth
the last and the most forlorn words:
no word may satiate,
or thereby enclose a breath,
   nor may it encompass
the theology of the breath, which
resides at the point of a soul -
and indeed... these were not the last
wordings of macbeth, but those of
a man i had the jest to please
in "knowing" -
                     namely myself;
and what did macbeth utter last?

with stage, actor and a post scriptum
intact to elevate a scriptum
      into a mortem?
              
             upon the altar of scone,
akin to the altar of isaac and the readied
hand of abraham -
                   this, and what needful else -  

i do what i do, for free,
                 because i believe in it,
like a master in the craft of carpentry;
i do what i do, for free,
   for my heart is here, abiding,
to feel the least & most it will
                                 ever require to feel.

hasten my coming,
                   toward the schwarztor -
before i end up kissing the many books,
and caressing their inner-soft-pouches
   of blood, ink and tattoo soaked skins -
as i might have,
    with regards to women,
          who, in the current year,
have become the lost 1st appeal,
relegated to concerns numbered 2nd;
ah, that famous hidden despotic hierarchy
        of the well-read man,
with patron saints of men alone,
in the solipsistic mouth -
  know the kant, the kierkegaard, the nietzsche;
once more:
  sophia is a *****'s name
                       that women chose,
to demand of men a love,
                       that requires a home
beyond the abode of the ego
                             housed in the mind.