There is a curious case of nature
In how it seems to recede with the winter.

It's all fine and colorful,
Sun washes in,
Feelings are vibrant until life is halted,
All is still and time is waiting.

Guessing in your mysticism,
We were in harmony on that wavelength.

Where has the communication gone?

Do you know it's Christmas time?
Do you know I'm aging
   and in that fashion, feeling my weight in years?
Do I need to remind you my contribution?

Is my fault, my burden now, that I am not the charitable
   entity that I once appeared?

I am tearing at my stitching, I cannot expand my portions.

Cut me some slack,
Ease up on me.

What is this,
I'm not naive,
Or at least as naive as you must think me.

How under my psychotic depression are you painting me
   to your handler this evening?
Am I the next to go?

I know it's approaching Boxing Day, and that fact
   has not once brought me comfort.

This restless spirit is turning into anxiety, I'm scared,
   and you're indifferent.

This is grave, and I'm not blowing this one
   out of the slightest proportion.

This is killing me and I feel so replenished.

Glad to have made contact.

Loved to intertwine within those blue eyes, months before we'd fade with the particles of our memory.

Plato's spirit saw the snow today.

It purified the Earth again, while I was emptying out my stress.

Insurance and assurance were synonymous today.

It's so quiet in the harbor.

The ships stayed in and we all sang choral melodies against the mast.

The air was crisp and so were you.

Perfect atmospheric conditions on the hell-side of Kentucky.

I.

My blood was glistening meteor glows after
        the modern jazz I spent all night trying
        to carve into genius.

Hanging on the the blue notes of
        saxophones like a madman hooked to
        his syringe, and then you petrified me...

But I began to shake.

The spirit of all my ballads has returned to
        me at last.

Dug yourself out of my past, into the
        bedroom thought fractures — I call
        them modern art — but plugged into
        your Dada spirit, the abstract turns into
        star clusters,

And I'm burning for that cosmic wishing well.

Just hoping for your radiation to spread over
         our lightyear gap, that gap that always
         made coexistence so impossible.

When Calliope calls,
     I'd advise anyone answer...
      But you're twice as golden
       And thrice as red
         As Calliope has ever been.

Torn in your sandstorm.
Blinded by this vision of your second  
        coming.

Back in one piece, one whole, one complete
        consciousness, and all after I tried my
        damnedest to rip you apart, poetically.

Only in reflection and confrontation did I see
        how wrong it all felt.

That is not poetry
There was no peace.
That does not spawn Justice,
And you did not warrant my contempt.

I idolize you for you are what I am not.
I am mesmerized as we are exactly the
        same.

II.

The things you do not know.

I must have started typing you fifty times,
        never hitting send since my dark
        Crispin's Night.
I never hit send.
Not once.
I built imaginary worlds where you were my
        abuser, with my loneliness a
        pawn, but a crucial one.
Those thoughts that latched on to the back
        corners of my insecurity, and reassured
        me I was void of worth most every
        night...
I turned those thoughts into you—
Spilled those ******* thoughts into reality,
        and it took your shot of venom to place
        it all back into perspective.

If you're wondering what I've been up to
        since you left, my calendar hasn't
        hasn't moved a single page.

III.

The mythos never told me that Erato could
        address me back—
Muse that I pray on.
Muse that I mull over with Whitman.

I take this chance to lift you up, as you've
        been floating me over this rural skyline
        for months now.
Let me see the city.
I only wish to live.
I see governments toppled in the tint of your
        face, with the lights low, the air quite
        heavy for me.
You had to feel like a Goddess,
Even your distant screams had your mark of
        perfection.

IV.

You're the one I envy.

Dozing off under the anger of conservative
         politicians talking about life...
Erato, darling, what do these guys know
         about life anyway?
To lie as profession
Lie for the masses
Lie for the wealth of corporations
Lie for self-justification
Lie for the war effort
Lie for the public spectacle that can be
        reduced to little more than fetus magic.

I'd rather be haunted by anything else.

Emigration sounds so lucrative.

V.

It's time to cut open the system.

I wish society, when cut open and guts
        hanging, strung up in a gallery, looked
        like the spirit of a Scrabble screaming
        match, less like estimations of
        "necessary" civilian casualties.

It's time to piece in your abstraction.

Let's flip the script from faith-lit sketchbook
        into reality.
Let's show the world the graces of speaking
        in comedy, the asset we lost when we fell dark under our lack of communication.

Blessed to reestablish what we cannot take for granted.

Iris bonfire to highlight your drive,
But it's only determination,
Your gift of beatitude.

You can move through mazes with such precision and grace.

I should have never let my admiration pull me under a tide of greed.

As much as I value the ability
        to cut away at masses of abstraction,
Still covered in their vague seal of illusion
        you don't condone,
I'd submit to trade for even a bit of your  
        structure,
And let you have the absinthe that coats my
        soul.

VI.

Drink on how we are in harmony.

I'm already drunk on your hesitance.

Everything about your being is skewing my world.

I feel the changes, while the cold sets in,  
        across their javelin flight path.

These aren't the kind of thoughts you can't
        damp down with epilepsy medication.

I'm nearing clarity.
I'm inching in on human purpose.

VII.

I locked you away on my nightstand,

Next to Jailbird, in great irony.

I never let you argue your rights.

I wasn't just being inhumane, it was
        borderline unconstitutional.

Anger from hate, as always.
Coping in flawed fashion, yet smiling at your
        likeness.
Condemning you at public displays of
        Satantic litany,
Fell broken when you were in attendance.

Never again will I carry that false prophecy.

I couldn't escape your sway if I tried.

I.

The road to forgiveness
        is how we will all travel
        through our damaged perception.
The road of our youth-laced mistakes
        began long before Springfield,
        but let us never forget
        that lesson in interaction...
The laughs that would accompany
        our philosophical musings on the order
        by which we all arrive at consciousness,
        regardless of the fact that I would not
        arrive within my allotted time.

I'm more glad than you know
        that apology was even an option.

II.

Unconditional, even.

Burdened now in knowing that I am absolutely
         the beast of sin,
Taking the role of God as I planned to drown  
        the only person I used to run to...
Attacking the "Demon" I've built up in my
        head...

Carly, Carly, I'll just address you directly.

Free now from the paper prison which I vainly
        hoped would absolve me,
Selfishly throwing infants into the fire of tender
        memory,
Throwing down the IEDs, planted all round the
        ballerinas who would listen to my fake  
        stoic cries, mind lined with my own  
        intellectual elitism.

III.

Hypocritical as I read the Sutra in my bed.

Who was I to **** you after we spilled all of  
        that starlight into each other's ears over
        telephone signals?
Who was I to shoot down the look in your eye
        after all the genuine maintenance I made
        under your guise?

"I can't believe you're real"

True with different tone color now.

So thankful you weren't hesitant in returning
        your missiles to the silo.

And now,

Finally...

It is time to live.

Mad in my envy.
Mad in the irrational stresses of "love".
Mad at all the happiness I isolate.
Mad with the visions of success.
Mad with my prewar publications.
Mad with your gestures of bliss.
Mad in how we can't get carried away.
Mad at how the money always talks back.
Mad when I am making this a monologue.
Mad when I haven't crossed the minds of
       strangers.
Mad when they declare the eyes of reason to
       be obscene for the children.
Mad at the fame that they call existence.
Mad when I see the lackluster descriptive
       lies within their Bibles.
Mad that you became the society we
       ******.
Mad toward the rebirth of the minister's
       daughter who sang for forgiveness and
       love but lied about both,
Wasting our time on useless Norwich
       sonnets, and naming the theoretical
       infants—
Wouldn't anyone be mad as hell?

II. GENESIS.

Beautiful in your powerful gaze, upgrading
       constantly, tossing me aside, casting
       countless new euphoric darlings into the
       void since my dismissal.

Draining each meaningful vein from the
       poor souls who fall under your magnetic
       pull—who want to brave the human    
       castle (floor lined with pitfalls) and then
       you, *** Incarnate! Most perfect
       amongst us! Blessed be your Godly
       word, you execute them with joy!

Holy in your immaculate beauty, dear Saint!
Now it is your time of reckoning.

Happy Birthday.

Don't forget who made you.

Visions of mystics that I surely didn't see,
But genuine was the mother of an ancient love—
Funny to think of it all marred in equal parts spiritualism and consumerist *******,
And all of them ignorant to the Kansas City memories they conjure.

I will see you on the day of the levee breach.
I will see you when my sinful green dreams
       break the fourth wall.
I will see you when every instance of your
       breath envelopes me like an atmosphere
       of ecstasy and poison.
I will see you when your face still hasn't  
       aged, so perfect in your mastery, and
       you'll glance back on me, seeing clearly
       my eyes of penury.

You will see me—veiled until the flood, washing over, just us two, the prophecy completed, and the realm of death finally demolished.

When will we take the time to cry for the time we've wasted, and when will we start spending the time to correct this?

Tell me if you're built on the same lithium and helium that I am, or if I've been formulating you out of my own ignorance.

Deeper now, into my depression.

You. You have the lingering qualities of a ghost, and just as well a ghost that I haven't seen you in ages.

Perhaps there will be a seance to your memory but do you hold it in Seattle? In a Kerouac, run down, for sale bed in Denver?

Don't tell me you wouldn't like the highs of a streetlamp sonata... But still you'd tell me that the good stuff is really highway jazz, and that cool songstress who gave you the first bites of LSD in your throat.

I can't wait until this America looks like rubble, and is exposed for the **** it's standing on, collapses like the Berlin Wall, and we start letting love back in.

Such a drop in communication. Such a lackluster, government barn burner, and I can't get any telegrams anymore. I used to wish you'd write me a hundred times a day, and now I see where all that greed got me.

So sad. Scared to death in your presence! Am I eulogizing you now, or are these my parting words?

Originality—who's buying?
I wish that ***** would forge Picasso or Matisse.
Give me something better to worry about.

Thinking thoughts of honorable ******,
Terrible though—
You can't **** structure,
You can't **** rhyme,
You can't **** the governor,
You can't **** Ayn Rand,
You can't **** Jackson *******...
They're all doing fine.
Vitals stable.
Restored this morning.

Mystic within Catholic depression, holy roses wrapped about a room of adultery. All I could think of was Jack Kennedy, and the irony of how I cried at his tomb.

You disrupted my balance.

You walked like Aphrodite over my fixed set of morals, into my collection of a million words, onto my bookshelf... And had no idea.

Because I was too late.
Because I did not know.
Because the world would consider this all
       immoral, but morals are bourgeoise
       constructs anyway.
Because you have an aerosol heart.
Because you have that face of diplomatic
       change, free of charge.
Because you might be God.
Because you soul walks across Atlantic City.
Because you hold a pen like Whitman.

I'm curious.