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Oh yes, I nearly forgot to mention.
I do enjoy many orgiastic revelries
in my solitude, well, at least during
those certain moments of me
beyond myself.

If you'd like to join in
please forward a note of interest.
Included should be instructions
on how to best help you
transform your pain into wisdom,
how best to get you
to mingle your pleasure
with anonymity,
what we should tell your loved ones
if you happen to wander away
angry, saintly, or full of prophecy,
and a detailed description
of your vision of the beast's fiery mane.
You remember- that time when the god inclined
and presented itself, god to human.
You touched me with that potent grace
convinced me of our destiny beyond
I felt my heart evaporate into a passion
I gave myself a tender kiss goodbye
I faded into moonlight and prayer
knowing if any recognizable part of me
          endured until morning
I would be some brilliant new creature
with no need for that hysterical pride
that loves to declare that I am
I.
This is a simple prayer-
four stones thrown into the river.
It usually works.

II.
Is it really your desire
to burn through my body
to do your work of love?

III.
What will death be like?
I believe it will be sweet
like this moment.

IV.
I'm not much to be afraid of,
but just look at this beast of love
draped upon my shoulders.

V.
How well do I appreciate beauty?
I raise and destroy whole kingdoms
just by exploiting my own.

VI.
Isn't it ironic
that a hallucination
taught me to love.

VII.
We are one people.
One crushing love
is perfect for us all.

VIII.
Paint you face
so the dead
will love you.

IX.
Love smears the foundation
of our bodies, no matter if we
spill, spit, bleed, or love.

X.
Conception continues
even in the house
of one million lies.
Another old piece from a chap book thrown together by a wonderful critique group I was with back in the late '90's. Interesting for me to see how some of the lines and images have been rehashed both in earlier and later pieces.
You are the drummer, you are not the beat.
          What a tune.
We play a silence from the string and snare.
It is love that thumps against  the ear.
Without this love, the music is a lie.
I think I wrote this. I was going back through some old journals from the early '90's and came across this- kind of liked it. But then, I thought it might be a Rumi knock-off. For any Rumi fan out there, let me know if you think I'm stealing. Thanks
I was normal
until the story of love
thoroughly confused me.

So now I have to chose
from a selection of hopes-
none of them attractive.

I can let the dogs dissect
my limbs, so my new body
can heal you all,

but then my weariness
will not be curable
even by eternal sleep.

If nothing else, I've learned this.

          The only words to fear
          are the deathless words.
          Keep them out of touch,

          but not out of sight
          as the gazelles glance and
          bounce round the lion.
I permit myself a ****** season,
so nothing corresponds with me-
Minaret, moon and wall are
all too sophisticated to stoop so low.
But, the very dumb sands
of the desert quiver and hiss
towards my soul
and drive my hips
away from discretion
and out towards
the thrilling oblivion
of you and me
shameless and beyond.
It's like trying
to see lightning.
I sat long enough
this Tuesday twilight,
brave enough watching
the twilight sky,
brave enough to forgoe
a glance to the right
to make sure a racoon
hadn't stumbled upon me,
and it and I, startled,
would scrap, resulting
with my hand bitten -
embarrassing cowardice.

Brave enough I watched
and the lightning climbed
a height! It etched itself
round the top of the thunderhead
that towered above and above
other domes that I assumed were the height,
but higher even, the lightning climbed,
and I wondered if it knew I watched,
cause it took its time- not a blink,
but a scrawl up the round height of the dome
at a height that I dared not know existed.

Could not be more unremarkable, me,
on the stoop, on a Tuesday twilight,
but the height, and the height,
and the lightning will be there, good-
good as my mother's skin under
her thin, summer top, good as the
first girl fervent enough to undress
with me, good as my wife inviting
me to come through all the boredom
and distress, good as the end,
when I'll know the lightning
sees me, cause I'll see the lightning.
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