I've been waiting for you
For a full Earth's rotation around the sun.
And I've looked everywhere
At the **** of three hundred and sixty-five cigarettes,
And in three hundred and sixty-five last sips of wine
In the last few seconds of songs sung
By forlorn ex-lovers
And I think maybe
It's at one of these ends
That I'll find you
Because the end is where I saw you last
So in three hundred and sixty-five nights of never quite
Falling asleep
I've merely been
Falling
Looking at the ends of cigarette butts, bottles, and ballads
For the end
The one you wrote
So that I can rewrite it.

Her funky , modish,  lingerie on a clothesline hung to dry,
doesn't bring to mind any wild imagery,
he just sees that: an undergarment
decency wouldn't permit to make an exhibit like this,
"My God!" he realizes with a shock"The midlife crisis has already started"

In deep sleep, her  anguished voice rings a bell in my brain,
hear the screams of a woman in my blood stream,
hallucination, I loved to believe,  but then it became more frequent
at night, she whispers, her intimate secrets, without shame
in to my ears, in a seductive voice.Do I like it? she snickers
I got used to it's persuasive lilt, sometimes it  sounds like a complaint.
If I turn a deaf ear, she knows how to make me listen
Then I am all ears; become her single, faithful, captive listener.
She questions me sometimes"Tell me what you know about ***?"
I go and learn the fundas on the female of the spices,
in detail, pass the test,
wonder, how little I know about her as a person. Isn't she my counterpart?
She talks about the curtain of ignorance, that still segregates  her from him
and chides me "Will you be complete, if I didn't wake you up"

In this poem I am not speaking to you
but to myself: As I write,

sentences form their own voices, their own
moods and opinions such as rebellions,

loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe
is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless

consciousness is composed of collective mind
stretched across the magnetism of space only

to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd,
light and heavy; humanity has existed

for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious
and inhumane; thrashing about in between

life and death where in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis.

————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012

all rights reserved

"in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert

Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah"

The spirited light; the solar-like wind;
breath with its passion; the sun’s copious
****** venom.

I speak of everything and all things
without caution: this noise inside my head;
layers of high pitched harmonics;

the compressed hours between
birth and death; the heart’s heat
ascending and descending;

the end always beginning and again
your Gothic eyes. I have been here
and there, a prodigal hawk

with the flavor of blood-kisses hovering
like steam or mist or a weapon stirring
the body’s carbonic magnetic motion;

never the sky always the silence disclosing
the stillness in death’s fantasy—life and death;
love and loss; a fatalistic dream-reel

as if two mirrors facing each other reflecting
the same vacant image. I remember the faint
trail of finger prints; my impatient pulse

raced into yours. Deserted passions
like roses each one dies the same way
—our emotions mumbled

through love and into the glazed elixir
of a French kiss: In my arms you had fallen asleep
not knowing I had left.

——————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012  
all rights reserved

"never the sky always the silence"—from Andre' Breton

Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah" and "in forbidden language/dah"