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Antino Art May 2019
Mr. Hippo, you are 3,000 pounds. How is it that you are able to swim? Tell me, Mr. Hippo. Your legs are so short that your belly drags against the ground. Your head is huge, and your body is intensely round. Yet you are able to stay afloat and not drown. How is it that you are buoyant? And how is it that those stubby legs of yours can propel you forward in water?

Mr. Hippo, I hear you can run up to 30 mph on land. *******. You don’t even need to run. You’re regarded as the most dangerous animal in Africa. I hear you can snap a crocodile in two with one bite. What do you eat, Mr. Hippo, to get that big? I hear you only eat grass and you don’t really fight. Yet you have those giant teeth that lions do not ***** with.

Mr. Hippo, you’re that dangerous and feared, but still in a good enough mood to wiggle your ears. And maintain such shinny Hippo skin. It is for all these reasons that I would like to have you as a pet, Mr. Hippo. I’d walk you down the street and show you off to all the neighbors and let them gossip. You could swim in their pools and feed on their blossoms. You could stop their cars in their tracks and their yards, you could cross them. They will say, “Mr. Antonio, you are strange.” But it will cost them. Because later they will say, “Mr. Antonio, we are sorry. Mr. Hippo, you are awesome.”
You cannot deny;
this, then or why.
that little contridiction.
so constantly.
No need to know me.

let me wallow a while,
deep in my own dirt denial.
As a preposterous,

I won't lie;
exasperated sigh.
It's my own personal truth.
so blatantly;
light won't show me.

let me wallow a while,
deep in my own dirt denial.
As a preposterous,
Lunar Luvnotes Mar 2016
Sprawling Hills of Robbins calling, flitting up and diving down plumes of cherry blossom. Whispers between sunlit shower over speckled lawn canvas that keeps me rolling in anticipation of what's to come. To come. My one. When God sends, he will tread my boundaries exploring, yet never wanting to crumple one leaf, but I whisper between our fifth and sixth eyes the omens flung about my halls, that he may crunch every leaf and twig his soles do bound upon, the past may rip and scream across the forest floor if it means he will be who he needs, not who I need, so that we may meet in harmony,  so that I may have him and hold him for all this lifetime. He may crunch his path as he runs, with no plea by me to stop echoing death. I am heaven sent, I pulsate frequency  radiating out of me, not likely to leave my King, or the king my King brings, in favor of fanciful histories.. I will delight to be his queen of the mornings. I will be the feast his eyes eat up. The fruit so nourishing, before it fall, leaves falling. Falling. Back to the Earth from which I came, to be reborn in spring. Falling. Falling. He will be my summer calling, I his long awaited rain. He will be the harshest winter that makes my ego hibernate or there'd be no surviving. No writhing. Butterflies from the tomb, exploding out like flumes, the free falling, falling. Poppies popping through ice pockets, shattering what was frosted, and cloudy. My sunshine melts away his cold, I will be the life force he delivers into new dimensions of reality, cuz together we are the Galaxies.  Galaxies. They waited to be born since we last pulled apart, my love weathers every storm, my Lord hath created, Created. To test integrity that should burn through centuries, through the ages. Ages. My King will be assembly to every notion born of my hips. He will be the part  inside me I can't shake and I wouldn't want to,  because how much he cares shows through constant. I want for him to be the only one to undress me for the rest of time, his hands on my waist haunting til I say his name and baby comes back crawling to make mama sing and scream til she's back onto her day with a charming grin she can't even hide when she's trying. That's golden. Golden. He is Daddy, he'll be the first and last man to know her pleasure cuz he's everything she's ever wanted and he knows it. He also knows that he should treat her kind so they don't scream and fight. Screaming or more likely crying would be the inevitable cuz she would never walk out on marriage, the institution that doesn't change things just cuz you've commited. The ego fuckery isn't dead on arrival of our Father to a blessed union. He wouldnt walk out on her, cuz he evolved past thinking he doesn't deserve everything that God did bring him. The Great Mother did sing that this would be beautiful something. Naturally, I'd wait for her ques to tell me hes someone true. I dont come unless I hear Angels calling. Calling. I muse I hope itd not be truth that Im a glorified learning tool, for I wanted the table itself to sprawl upon. The problem, reality calls, is word of free will runs rampant out of control from soul, I'll beat my pride down like a game of whack a mole cuz that's how much I love him. Love him.  I'll steal every show.  My will unlocks every door, its not whats next for renting, Im the rare bird. You are the rarest blue, so true then sad takes you to an underworld of pain through past fast forward to lessons. Transcendence. Its not that in our true essence, we're less worthy of Gods blessing, it's just that the timing has to be right for picking.  Mutual peace must be obtained,  non mutual paves no way.  Love is not jealous. Jealous. Love is not boastful, never. Must not boast of bitten hands or fan self delusions that we're not worthy. We are worthy. So worthy. Love is not prideful. Love is what's left when you brush the emotion off the past. Love is the deepest forgiveness that only comes from truly loving oneself. If I must wait, I promise I will befriend you til Jesus pushes you aside to make room for husband,  or til he helps you push out your own ego and locks him out our happy home. Permanently. Forever. And we can be what we thought we might,  if only the timing was right,  and everything magically aligned how we hoped when we astro-traveled and looked down on the Milky Way, just hoping. Hoping. In our furthest dreams, that by God's grace we'd meet. Our fingers are still intertwined out there somewhere and I swear my soul feels it. I can feel it.
Don't be mad, write poetry. This is what I want to say now.  It will probably b edited down to be a husbandy piece that hopefully wives can relate to. Ill leave the gooey goodstuff and edit out the right-now stuff when and if it ever becomes about my husband who I've yet to meet if God must greet me through another soldier

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