In blue dawn
pure truth will hinge on the
personal moons.

I was ready to tell
you all rumors to learn the
art of mimicry.

The air smells of the
masks. Not fakes. Skin dries
up to dew emboss prints.

The angels just might be here.
They might incline and motion me
towards paradise - the gracious witness
of tranquility's conflagration.

But I swear, if at this moment
you walk by, with that longing
that shapes the curve of your hips,
and that thrilling stillness on your

tongue, ******* and lips,
I would pivot on a cheap dime
and wag after you, even if my arousal
is a disgust, while you labor
          to comfort your concerns.

And if the angels counsel -
"Ghost, ghost, ghost," I swear again
that I would dictate a new divinity
in which ghosts and the gods

worship through the senseless hunger,
adorned by the irresolvable hope
that my hips and your hips, my tongue
and your tongue, my eyes seeing

your eyes can actually come together
in the indecipherable union,
and be greater than all
that will ever be.

Folly - unless it is true.
The best reason I have
for remaining such a diseased
and frantic ghost.

One day in a dream,
I will ask the deity of ancient
temple, why did you father-

*

the elephantine
blunder of creating universe
to destroy it again?

*

I was also the builder
of bold world on the paper
for nightingale.

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.

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.