"I love you,"

I said.

He replied,

"Good night."

That night

I knew

what love was for me

was a dream to him

I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)


how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits  
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an
I

to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give
I

who teaches this to the children?

I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last

cleanly indistinguishable,

your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the
I,

~

9:24am EST
6/2/17
airborne over the Western US of A

tender Spirit, tend my spirit
come in and make me new
drift me down a brook of right
the right that I must do

gentle Spirit, whisper peace
come in and give me rest
quiet all my demons now
provoke from me my best

loving Spirit, take my spirit
hold mine next to you
deep inside this mortal shell
place heaven's morning dew

I guess this serves as a warning.
To the friends and the loved ones
members of an active social order
wanting a life of something more than disorder.

Poetry is not a breath.
It is not an escape into a lesser abyss
that leaves you scratch free.
Or an opening and interesting guarantee.

Instead
it grabs inwardly at you.
It coaxes the trolls from the deepest
corners of the forest that you had
long since banished and left behind
and wanted to rid your mind of and
never wanted to see again.

The fire that had been stomped out
is reborn.

The crashing waves that broke the ship
fight again.

And poetry reopens the wounds
that you had hoped would heal
with time and with suppression
that had once filled and consumed with aggression.

Poetry is anger.

Poetry leaves the poet
drowning
in a river of currents when it flows
but out in the baking sun when
it stops.

The issue is
for a poet to be happy
with her work

she must also feel the
unhappy in her life.

There's a silence between us
unspoken of
a void,
if I dare say.

There are times
we may be close
but we are more unknown
to each other
than we really think.

Friend,
why are you so distant?
I understand
that you understand
that people come and go

But
why push me away?
I want to say
that it's okay
for longer
I want to stay.

I understand
that you're use to losing people
and you're no longer afraid
should I leave you.

True,
I do not know what goes on
in the depths of your mind
in the abyss of this great sea.

I do not know
the battles you've faced
the demons you have fought
the nightmares that choke
the reality out of you.

I may not know
what it feels like
to have severe anxiety,
to have panic attacks every once in a while,
to have social problems,
the list will go on...

I may not know everything about you
But I know this:
you are the most honest person
I have ever met.
And this honesty,
honestly, I must say,
It is bittersweet.

Truth be told,
I may not like everything you say
But I accept it.

Because,
What is truth if it doesn't hurt?

I don't know
why you are silent.
Maybe you figured,
without me
or anybody for that matter
that you'll be strong.

Don't get me wrong,
I know you are strong.
But you are also wrong
about one thing.

You may think I will leave you
Maybe, but still
not immediately
not yet.

I will keep waiting
right here, if you need a friend.
If time should separate us,
or you push me away and grow cold,
I'll still be here.

I'll still be
your friend.