My love, if you die and I don't--,
let's not give grief an even greater field.
No expanse is greater than where we live.

Dust in the wheat, sand in the deserts,
time, wandering water, the vague wind
swept us like sailing seeds.
We might not have found one another in time.

This meadow where we find ourselves,
O little infinity! we give it back.
But Love, this love has not ended:

just as it never had a birth, it has
no death: it is like a long river,
only changing lands, and changing lips.

Wild Turkey 101
does not taste quite the same as,
does not go down quite the same as,
and certainly does not go out quite the same as
some good, cheap
*****.

The sun and the moon
blend together in my mind,
one for each of my eyes. 
Everything is dark and cold,
and Everything is hot and bright.
I presume, though, that I do not betray the standards
of hope and humanity, nor justice and morality,
but who else will have sympathy for the wicked?

The sound of falling water
Inside a wooded gloom
Behind a lowly river
Incites this rose to bloom

Its red glows in the shadows
Of midnight and of fiends
The moon, it shares a pale glow
With rose's crimson dreams

Their shine, it brings one wonder
A lavish light to see
But my eyes, still a blunder
Are searching through the trees

Yin and Yang have nothing on my
bipolar, wishy-washy personality.
I'm self-diagnosed;
a pile of mashed potatoes
where the butter's just not melting in.

I am an indiviudal,
not quite unique,
but quite right hypocritical,
and not so naive,
but I'm sure plenty cynical;
that's why I survive.
I'm not so **** conventional,
call me the Impulse Individual.  

But to me,
that's not some sin,
I'm not compelled
to fall right into the wake
with the rest of us.

Peering through the looking glass
Prismatic dispersion in all directions,
The sights you see, the sounds I hear
are merely just reflections.

For what you perceive is what I perspire,
But what I seek may not be your desire;
And is giving to receive an honest way to inspire?
Or are they as contradictory as water and fire?

You stepped
Deep into
  The waters
   Of my soul

Patiently you searched
For the precious
     Stone

You found it
Warmed it
  Caressed it
And gave it
  To me
Unselfishly
  As a gift

And now
  It is ours
    And we call it
        Love

they like to say that "men" do not cry
so what makes a man?
is it the boom of his voice?
is it strut in his step?
the depth of his wallet?
or the bulk of his biceps?
or is it none of these things
perhaps it's the solitary tear
that rolls down a lonely cheek
and is quickly and silently wiped away
before anyone has the chance to question
masculinity

I now believe that perfection is felt in the moment my eyes converse with yours.
you respond with a nervous smile.
I believe bliss to be a privilege that can be found in  the young memory of your plush lips wet touch.
It's staggering to believe that my unsteady fingers have found courage to navigate your silky skin under an ivory moon.
All in one breath.