i saw a crane the other day.
it was foraging in the brook.

two thin lines
stepping stepping
stopping
observing

it almost looks human
the way it moves
thoughtful, careful, hesitant even
negotiating its footing

gooney majestic grace
unfurling ballet -- for me -- amid
babbling brooks and nature's hooks

i cried
i wept like a child

---- no, i didn't

i didn't cry
i didn't weep
but i wanted to
i wanted to cry
i felt like i should have

i wanted
to cry

i should have been able to feel
to have feelings

night drew in
abrupt
i didn't see it coming
lost in thoughtlessness' pauses
retracing the cursive of it all
left with
blank pages bound, blinking cursor

i killed two mosquitoes

then left

i kicked a stone
down the path

i bet even after all this time
that if my chest were to
ache with emptiness enough
like it used to i could go to your house
and find the outline of our bodies
on your dark blue bed sheets
i have spent the last year
both trying to run from you
and find you at the same time
but i left everything i knew
about falling in love
on that mattress and
it's still settling there
like dust and
all i can do is write about you
until it comes back to me,
or by some kind of miracle,
you decide to.

Everything I say, I don't just say for me.
Or because I think it matters more than what others say.
Or so that I can get in your pants.
Or to make myself feel better.

Everything I say, I don't just say because I'm sad.
Or because I think you're sad.
Or to make a philosophical point.
Or so I can make you love me.

Everything I say, I say because if I don't, I'll die.

In the silence before the creation of existence,
what God there may be spoke of all that may come to pass.
And this is what I now come to realize:

The rhythm of the universe cries out in one ALMIGHTY voice “remember";
   Here, now, listening to Tool whilst William Blake weeps in the corner beside me,
weeps at the folly of the search for truth and meaning in such a dark
   and lonely place as this godforsaken desert of a planet……

Though what Blake knows not in his head,
  his poet’s heart has known from the beginning:
WE CREATE OUR OWN MEANING.

Just because we are lied to from birth,
  just because we are made to believe that if only we follow the rules
and vote republican, that everything’ll be all pizza
  and ******* (to quote Don Cheadle)...

Just because we realize this lie does not mean that we must submit
  to the tyranny of lost souls and pens of insignificant blabbering about god,
and morality and some such nonsense about politics.

There is NOTHING…….
  save the world we create for ourselves,
within ourselves…..like that Talmudic script of wisdom:
”We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are”.

For what dark god must we sacrifice ourselves,
to somehow save ourselves or some such ******* that doesn’t make any sense
except to say that the death of the self somehow equals salvation.

I am the Hanged Man, questing irrevocably onward in search
  of my own metaphor of a Dark Tower…..
If only you knew what kind of an impact you would have on me…..
   you who tempted me to remove my Iron Mask
because no matter how burned and deformed my soul may be,
   you prefer it to a lie…

And that’s what I have done, unto others as was done to me…..
I LIED…..I lied to protect myself from all that I thought could destroy me.

But once upon a time, in the darkest pit of despair I had ever thrown myself into,
  when I had not God nor Love nor Belief to turn to for aid or succor,
I chose to continue existing simply out of spite;
   the knowledge of life within death sprung from some unknown source within myself,
or perhaps Jung’s collective unconscious,
   or maybe even the Soul of the Universe…

I once thought that the Truth didn’t matter,
   because if one has enough power the truth becomes irrelevant
and only what people think is true matters….

BUT YOU, YOU WHO BOW TO NO MAN SHOWED ME A DIFFERENT PATH,
  A PATH OF TRUTH WITHIN THYSELF.

I couldn’t muster the epic courage necessary to tell you
   what I feel I must tell you….much more than a simple drunken I Love You of a text message…..anyone can say that…..

But ONLY I can say that I have know my first untroubled sleep
   in many years while in the same bed with you.
You asked me if you could touch me and you said I was soft….
   you said I would be soft...

I am just as soft within my heart for you as my skin used to be.
   We did nothing but look at each other and I was content within,
for just the short time we were there…..

And then came the fire, and the emptiness, and waking life
   where I walk like a wraith in *****'s rags,
thus why I hate fascism and communism and totalitarianism
   and theocracy and all that would seek to destroy the world
that I have come to love with such a fiery passion
   because it has liberated me from the chains of resistance within conformity…..

because of you…..I AM FREE.

Brittle leaves fall upon a
   hard winter's ground.
Worthless bows to a dying shrine.

How long has it been
  since you risked yourself?
Not your body, no you use your
  beauty as a defense.

But that treasure you've locked away;
  your soul lies sleeping in a
tomb, of glass and honeysuckle.

The cathedral is empty, the worshippers
  fled to the countryside, and the monks
sing now only when the hours call them hence.

When will the light come back?
  Or will I forever keep vigil
at an empty altar?

When you meet my eyes for the first time,
trying to reach you across the twelve stools between us,
I won't be expecting it at all.
I may even look away after trying so hard to make contact,
depending on how steadily and heavily I've been poisoning myself tonight.
I love playing the eye game, especially with you,
but I'm kinda rusty these days,
so you might have to be slightly aggressive in the beginning
if you want.
Eventually the curiosity of what I'm thinking will crop up,
maybe right at the beginning,
maybe when I work up the audacity to come talk to you,
maybe when you tell me to shut up and kiss you already.
Or it might be one of those rare occasions with just the right mix of ***** and testosterone when I don't second guess myself.
Regardless, eventually you'll want to know what's going on up here.
It's pretty simple really, no big mystery, even if
I don't talk about myself much in person.
To be sure, I want to know what you taste like,
how you look without make up,
under a shower,
in a bed.
I want to know what it will be like to strip clothes from your body,
as an artist must feel uncovering a work of hidden beauty,
as a madman must when he regains himself,
as Rumi must have in his garden.
Images diverge from there, with equal portions half and half,
your hand around my waist as I lift your skirt in the bathroom,
and reading by lamplight to you a chapter from Divisadero.
You're looking at me with that same appraising gaze I know so well,
and you can be **** sure I'm wondering whether you'd like me to pull your hair, the same as you wondering if I like to be bitten.
You see, there is no longer any separation for me,
between closeness, passion, or ecstasy.
When we progress to the point,
when I finally get your hint,
that I don't have to try so hard,
I've already decided whether I'll take the plunge to your soul or not.

clouds may have silver
linings, but that doesn't mean
they don't block out stars