I have medicine.
Am being kept alive by progress.
Little pills like droplets of pale blue
Doctor-nectar.

I have been inside women so beautiful
I nearly gave up
Ghost.
Their confidences were instruments

Of classical composers.
The creative pleasure of the
Universe manifested. Aesthetics. Pure.  
Their bodies were salty

Words longing to be
Poetry.
They did it.
Made flesh immortal.

My hands were dead upon them; my
Heart skipped beats in the name of
Glossiness.
Twig fingers upon dead silicone.

And I grew around their hearts
Like a tree around a graveyard light post;
Watered with tears and appreciated at times  
When any

Grieving heart throws itself at anything
Beautiful and
Rigid.
For something.

I know love.
It tickles and hurts.
And I know death.
They're related.

Sisters separated at birth.
I know Poetry.
She says to Death and Love:
*Do you guys have the

Other two
Thirds of
This
Medallion?

I have no room for new scars.
My heart is more glued seams than pieces of
Hope and muscle.

My smile is as pale as the back of a
Dalí painting; all canvas and
Dirt.

I have opened my arms for a hug and
Stood accused of impersonating Christ.
Meditation rendered me unsocial.

As misunderstood as Latin, yet
I yell at the walls of common reality with
The dead language of my innersoul,

Cursing and blaspheming for the attention
Of deities. Some may listen; not one needs
To reply.

All I want is to break down the wall
Between myself and any creator
Listening,

And say Thank You. The Love
Of my Life is
My life.

What I love the most about my
Life is  
It.

Gravel pathways across a
Graveyard.
Rainbows in
Garden sprinkler droplets.
Church tower swallows.
I know death.

I know its smell, the touch of
Something unalive. I know
Its feeling.
It is sharp, lucid and transparent.
White haze in open eyes,
Dreams and memories now

Forgotten.
Stones leaning like mourning
Heads against one another. Trees
In breeze, one has grown around
The single rusty lamp post.
I have stood in its light.

Stood in its light looking up,
Caught not crying over a tragedy.
I know death. I know its feeling.
Closer every time I think of it;
The opposite of a mirage.
Mine may very well one

Day be the first dead body
Someone has ever seen.
These blue eyes milky blind.
Arms like branches; twig fingers.
Life means surprisingly little with
Your hands upon its absence.

Leave my name on each bullet.
Show me your shadow,
Scythe and all.
Dead as burned trees and great
Grandparents. Rancid rest. Dirt.
I know death.

Beyond the reach of castle wall
Shadows, calloused hands shield tired
Eyes from the unrelenting sunlight
Burning red shoulders and humble
Harvests.

Plow for sword, horse for labour,
Opposite of knight and royalty.
Hands that only take life for nutrition
Wave back at the queen standing
In the cottage doorway, smiling.

Apron cape, head proud beneath the
Invisible crown of motherhood.
Needs no throne, a woman so strong
She never sits.
Life is perfect in the eyes and hearts

Of those content with little.
May lightning split the skies and water
Pour upon these fields.
Our gold is oat, we need no moat to
Protect the walls of our home.

No foe invades for so little.
Ashes of dead distant stars; this soil.
Watered with the sweat of generations.
I would fight for this land.
I do so every day.

Sunday afternoon.
Bus stop by the river. Two
Teenagers in love
Practice hugging between hugs.

Laughter.
Skin.
Red cheeks.
Frost breath kisses.

Wonderful to see the
World trying to
Be a world
Again.