Sure..

Stand there...      wait
Don't stand there...    breathe.
No..        
Wait..
don't breathe...    just feel

Nah.   Yeah..
Ya-sure...  breathe&feel

Or wait...   no..
Just-remain-silent-and-say-nothing..


Ah,  there it is...    Yasss.    Good girl.

Blue nothing. She considered miles
out the high window in the stairwell.
First, simple paper distances her finger

could trace, point A to point B.
Then the more difficult measurement,
that of closeness, like bonded atoms.

And then, hypothetical expanses
like those of the heart's vessels -
their length could circle the globe twice.

A plane seemed to crawl across the glass,
leaving a necklace vapor trail. She believed
in possibilities, that every atom that could exist,

already did, but still, she could not wear the red,
strapless dress she no longer owned,
couldn't lift her hair for his fingertips to clasp

pearls at the nape of her neck, his breath
fastening a shiver between her shoulder blades
down the small dip of her back.

She wanted to look into a large aperture
telescope, to view the farthest reaches
of visible space, where no energy had ever been

destroyed, to see into the incalculable vastness
of him in their living room downstairs, him
on the brown sofa reading. She wanted

him to put down his book, to think of her
on the landing, waiting. For him to move
exponentially faster, up the stairs two at a time.

by Jo Brachman

When love beckons to you,  follow him,
though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you   yield to him,
though the sword,  hidden among his pinions
may wound you.

And when he speaks to you  believe in him
though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you  so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth,  so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height  and caresses
your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
so shall he descend to your roots
and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn  he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you  until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you
that you may know the secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge,
become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear, you would seek only love's peace
and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness
and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
into the seasonless world--
Where you shall laugh..  but not all of your laughter,
And weep..  but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught, but from itself.
Love possesses not,  nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say,
"God is in my heart,"
but rather,
"I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires,
let these be your desires--

To melt and be like a running brook
that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart
and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart
and a song of praise upon your lips.

~Kahlil Gibran

You have limits for closeness
Distance has no limits
If you can remember any distance story
You end up in seeing closeness
Cause closenesses are memorable
Not distances..

I hold a very little box
with very little things
little thoughts
little clippings
of smaller things
I often fold myself up
and place myself in
waiting in my little box
there sitting
for a little time
for a little while
I’m not asking for much
I sit with a little smile
nothing bigger than the box
nothing more than two
room for me
and a little of you

a kiss sounds a bit messy
too much saliva
the taste of breath

it’s the after-the-kiss that i like
(the before is good too)
but the after

oh

the closeness
the intimacy
the sweetness of it

nuzzles and breathless laughs and endless smiles
two people tucked so perfectly
into the gentle hollows of each other

i want it
i want to be breathless with you
noses touching
fingers brushing
two people loving

hands shake a little
tremors in the wrist
as my fingers touch
you, light as a summer mist

the feeling fills me full
this sensation of bliss
it’s so good, so very good
this lovely after-the-kiss

i would close my eyes
to just breathe you in

the points of contact:
(where i feel you)
nose
fingers
arm
waist
knees

where i feel my pulse:
(it’s everywhere, like the scent of you)
behind both ears
left side of my neck
right wrist near veins
inner right knee
arch of my left foot
under my jaw

too many places

am i dying

that feels like a possible outcome

i’ll die happy
ecstatic
in love
terrified
content
safe
and sound

so many things i feel
so many things to list
there is so much, almost
too much, about
this lovely after-the-kiss

he thinks of a conversation
and just someone to sing to
so she settles with the most wakeful few seconds in the dark
something she needs to take from him
and he will exchange for the better, something like
a confession that collapse all thunder to the rain within her
like a faint song from a closing theatre
a moment from an empty, sunlit classroom
a graceless parting, a connection taken for granted
a chronicle from a man passing like the guises of autumn
to be passed around without the weight of one another
the goodbyes without the afterthought

Dirt poor  and
down trodden,
he didnt ask for this
this life  among the fallen--

My fuckerface,  he paid his dues
among the homes of the forgotten

Scandinavian/Cherokee was his pa
(tho not for long)
Crow Creek Sioux and German,  his ma..

and all along the Rosebud rez
his half-breed skin,  rubbed raw.


Ah,  my beautiful  sweet fuckerface--
you are  the finest  blood-brother
of them all.

D Vanlandingham

I have gotten to the place
where I hate most everything
Except for the deep, raw truth

      of true brokenness.

And the love that I feel
for those  left so alone
undoes the twist of my hatred,

Bringing a warmth  that
keeps me alive, in my deep longing
to be with beautiful spirits,

                       kindred.