I am anxious, which looks
a lot like the young sparrow's
feathers quivering taught
as it pecks a meal of seed
endlessly aware of theft
by beak or death by talon.

And I am so proud of it.
Both my tense tissues
and  frantic sparrow
vibrating in the sunlight
fearing our pains and endings,
ingesting our stubborn
dedication to life.

How many times have I wanted
to leave the world?
Actually, I know the number.
It’s a very holy number
though hard to enumerate.
It’s the last prime number,
indivisible. Just a number
declaring that dumb love is the body
before all numbers
tumble off into infinity.
That’s how many times
I have wanted to leave
the world, because I reject
the world’s destiny into
all infinity, and prefer
the ignorant everlasting
of love’s decay.

Of course I keep stuffing the ***** rags
of ****** illusion down my throat!
Much better than drowning in the dark pools
of syrupy disdain you've wrung
from your tacky garments of fear.

I read of a mystic who, as a child,
fell backwards, his endearment
for creation needing to race
beyond the boundaries
of his body, when he had looked up
and witnessed the dark underbellies
of flying geese framed against the sickly
verdant clouds of a thunderhead.

I nearly fell over myself tonight
looking up and witnessing the black
veins of the Pin Oak framed against
the city's navy orange overcast.
But I stopped myself long before
a full tumble because I worried
what the neighbors might think.

The grace of creation is always there
to be witnessed, and courage
is the good sense to put the miracle
of belonging well before the loss.

For the first time since Mid-March,
when I reached the end of my drive
at the start of an early night's walk,
I looked up and actually saw the moon
and the stars. That is to say, the lights in my eyes
intimately explained their cold journeys
across the sky's expanse, so the moon
and the stars are more complete now
because I see them, and my body
is more complete now because it
has been touched by the dedication
of creation's brightest fires.
I understand fear as the worship
of the suffering bound to come,
and I understand fearlessness
as the respectful nod of recognition
traversing the spaces between
luminous creatures all prepared
to perish so long as the love continues.

We've all heard the sonorous brook
use water, stone, bank, and gravity
to tell some lovely stories.

But I'm angry and wise now,
so the other day, I actually
heard it tell the truth -

That god has no power.
But, god does walk with full mercy
deep into our dark cloud of suffering.

All days are bright, all days are warm and gentle.
There is no distance between myself and the most enviable
lapping of the surf along the shore, because you are here.
How does the miracle happen? Consider my heartbeat
without yours. Consider my thump, and your thump
now coming together under the skin, and here arrives
another thump, another drumming, a falling and rising
and falling and splashing. We have replicated the vocation
of the oceans, and our creation knows that he knows,
and what does he dare do with this knowledge -
he laughs. There is no greater proclamation of love
pulsing among any of the wild beasts of the deep.

I’m confident you are bolted
to your deathless beauties.
I know mine are always
there - purple, nighttime,
desert, floating,
cloak, sickle,
luminous, wall,
minaret, wailing.

You see, our pleasure
serves the divinity,
and our fluids
have instincts
to drench every
permanent icon
in a flooding rain
of freedom adored.

The Song of Emmanuel
scents the room
and I am heart broken
as protection has been mine
since my first days,
but still, you and I live
through our days of body
and the abandonment
of those before us
and the abandonment
of those not come.
He did not come.
She did not come.
But we are here
with our beautiful arrivals
and our beautiful endurances
and we live through
the days of our body, and this
dark night, we say farewell.

You can get to the light
through the darkness,
but your chances
aren't very good.

So I think I'm going to
call off my campaign
against all the beautiful ones
who are not possessed by me.

I flee from you,
because you are always correct.
Your numbers always land
on accurate determination.
So I flee from you,
because the spirit flees from you.

I know the spirit flees from you,
because it tells me with the green caress
of the undergrowth on my taught
skin seeking comfort while I crouch
low, and it tells with a fearless bird chirp
landing jovial on my tongue.

You know the spirit flees you,
because you do not hear the spirit,
and you can't deny, the spirit
talks to everyone.

My baby boy looks
at circular things
as if trying to remember
something that god
was saying.

I know exactly what there is
to witness as the sun flashes
in the dance of a million brilliant
diamonds atop the tumble of the sea.
It is the Dead, and each flash a call -
"We were the rich, the poor,
the beautiful, the plain,
the experienced, the naive,
the timid and the brave.
We are the dead,
and you will join us here
in this exile of radiance
and liberty."

Wag my tongue
and raise my arms high -
           Rejoice -
I'm running down the road
after the new sickle
          moon
without regard or hesitation.

I pray to disappear
in a light sparkling
just as white.

My mind is now warped
after too many attempts
to exploit the blessings
of eternity for personal gain.
My mind rejects that its
simple circuitry can not
contain the slightest shade
of truth and join the springs
from the ever flowing fountain.
My mind is, in fact,
the abacus of courteous deception
working to protect my heart
from such a transformative joy.

I am disappointed.
I can visit the neighborhood
of eternity at any time,
but can never bring
its riches back.

Though appearing timid
like the twitch of the field rodents
my life is greater than the sky
because I know the sky
beyond its mighty heights
beyond out into the void
and all evidence suggests
the sky does not know me
and it does not know me
beyond out into the void
because there is no void
the ends of my existence
are well occupied
because I love you.

Walking through the wood
unvisited because it's dull
as the days of my aging,
I don't care the species
of that singing bird,
but, I am desperate
to understand
the language of its call.

Let's clean our house
really good.
See if we can't find
where we've hidden
all the trinkets
that will explain
our confusion between
what is desire and
what is happiness.

Easily suffer, and be cool
in whatever fashion
fits your celebration of desire.

A Princess of Rio drives by
******* in a tiny white car.
Plenty of times, I have been
          more aroused,
but she and her carriage
are so light
that I can do that impossible thing -
dive deep into the desire
as well as the unsinkable hope.

I think it's a good idea
to base society on the family,
and base the family on lust.

Not too many words
because I'm not here for debate.
I intend to assassinate obscurity,
and I'm happy to do it
with a lick, a bullet, or a snarl.

I'd like to penetrate the disorder
so that we'll be comforted,
but my hesitations are founded
in the knowing that doing so
will bring us together
in a sacrifice of nails,
and who the hell wants that.

A great fear
that I hope I
never resolve,
will my sons
see the beauty
of the world
and will the world
see the beauty
of my sons.

Look at my face and
you can't help but notice
my captivating eyes.

Their refinement was well crafted
after many poundings of my head
against the stone wall of lust.

I hide behind a great stone
hoping that the adoration
that my beloveds wish
to shower upon me
will be forgotten and neglected.

It is terrifying the manner
in which such sincere love
will purify me into anonymity,
just the same way tranquility
always threatens to do.

Now I am truly suffering,
so I must be surrounded by love.

Today is no less beautiful
than the most glorious
days of the earth,
but I am still doubtful
that I will survive it.

All of the body's
****** motions
are quite ******
except that serene
forgetfulness rippling
across the face that's
vanishing into adoration.

I’ve become convinced
that love is here
to ensure that I’ll die.

My voice is so simple
and very true,
but it knows too easily
how to disappear.

Only a few hours left
to better catalog
all of my perversities.

Stupid of me to think I have agency
when I open my mouth
seeing as my tongue is always
otherwise instructed.
A sonnet of ****** passion
or a sestina of natural splendor
would really aid me most,
but the obnoxious curtness and terror
of our true vision is all my tongue
will abide. I sing, briefly,
about death and love,
because love is here,
and death is coming.

Now you are here,
it is you who will see the moon.
I'll walk along this road
at the height of the month
with the sun setting and
the full moon rising,
and you are the one
who does not need to care,
and I am the one
who will love you and
help you see the sun and the moon
until I crawl into my grave.

"Does suffering scare me? O Mother,
Let me suffer in this world. Do I require more?
Suffering runs ahead of me and runs after me.
I carry it on my head and set up a stand
in the bazaar to peddle it.
I'm a poison worm, I thrive on poison.
I carry it wherever I go.

Prasad says: Mother: lift off my load.
I need a little rest. It's amazing!
Others brag about their happiness.
I brag about my suffering.


by: Ramprasad Sen (c. 1718 - c. 1775)
Hindu Shakta Poet
from: Grace and Mercy in Her Wild Hard

I will write divinity's password,
but I might need a few wasted lifetimes
in which to do it.

How disturbing my mind is.
It heads to perversities in
the room to the right
while the conversations of heaven
go on in the room to the left.

Geese flying at night
dissect my doubt with
their confident squawks,
and disperse my torpor
with the rushed rustle
of their white underbellies.

There is only one adventure,
and it takes place inside your body.

I want to know myself better,
so I walk around with naked feet.

I want to know you better,
so walk around with wild hair.

Come watch my master craft
in the mechanics of possession,
my spellbinding skills
in trapping beauties
that decay rapidly
at the moment of their glory.

Senseless words
stretching towards reunion.

I am still suffering,
and the moon is still full.

I'm learning
the senseless circles
along the pathway
to tranquility,
but I divert myself
and go knee deep
into the dripping hips
just because they are
much lest threatening.

I like to think everything is safe,
but then there is all this fire.

Imagine if every breath
were as sweet
as the prayer smoke.

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.

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