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Senseless words
stretching towards reunion.
Easily suffer, and be cool
in whatever fashion
fits your celebration of desire.
I destroy creation and create it anew
        at every moment.
If a stench lingers, it is only to remind us
        that each creation gives way to more love.
I am still suffering,
and the moon is still full.
I'm sorry that my paradise is so useless.
It doesn't save anyone, doesn't build structures
at which they might marvel. It doesn't
add anything to the design
of civilization's advance.

It's just me, here, resisting application,
in great gratitude and delight, happy
to wait for the day that you and I
will tackle each other, and be defined
by our wet, naked love.
I am not sure
who can answer
but I still ask,
why is ecstasy
so embarrassing?

I come to a wall inside of myself
on this side of which
I have nothing to say.

Still, let's make love
so the rain will fall,
or at least let's start a fire
because you can not
be born alone.
I need the music, I need a way.
I understand so little that I am crushed
        by time's passing.
Your basic elements, your distances, your beginnings
        and ends all so cruel to me.
I need the music for a time to be.
I need the lodge for a place to be.
I need the people, your loving so electric
        between us.
That music, trying to crack open
        my dumb heart.

                            All things long to know you,
                            my love of dark light.
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
not 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.
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.
I have no need of a perfect life.
But, I do need a love that lasts
        beyond all the burning fire,
        and all the rotting flesh.
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.
Could you really desire
to burn through my body
to do your work of love?

How much burning bush
        could possibly be enough
                for all my prayer, all my longing?
My voice is so simple
and very true,
but it knows too easily
how to disappear.
One thousand dogs laugh
while the innocent and the condemned
share simultaneous dance.
They worship the rattle of the snake
beyond the frontier of human decency,
which poses the question,
"is god's love above the navel
or somewhere below"?

Though still a saint, I am the enemy of the common public
implicated during this sordid scandal.
I arrive promptly at the hour of the counter clock,
because same as you, I am in the midst
of the struggle for love, and I am suffering.
I wonder, "Hey, where can I get
one of those divine eyes?"
I may as well froth at the mouth
if I am going to love you,
because only a deluded person
can do the healing of this age.

Mix ash with seawater
and place it on your tongue.
Death will try to love you
as if it wants to live.
Offer your skullcap
filled with fluids
fragranced by humility.
You will have the solution for loneliness
but it will be so effective
no one will want to hear it.
Our third eye is an eclipse.
It flares with death and creativity.
A shadow without a horizon
will passover,
and we are then eternal.
I have difficulty finding
the center of creation
just as I can not find
the embryo of myself.

Still, all I need radiates like firelight
and the beautiful face seen
on the other side of night.
Without prosperity, I love the gods.
I achieve nothing, and am thus made man.
I recognize beauty, and am thus beautiful.
I know the ancient lies, and thus deceive
with today's shy truth.

I dissect my limbs,
the ones that finished
the frantic dance,
to the know the scandal
of bones reborn.
I feast on meats
from recalcitrant cows
and drink cheap wines
to have visions
of an untouched people.


There are worthwhile activities
asides from prayer and making love,
but heck if I know what they are,
and so I minister the radical word.
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.
A song of lamentation I wrote for Christmas Eve after a year of many losses.
Today is no less beautiful
than the most glorious
days of the earth,
but I am still doubtful
that I will survive it.
What is timelessness
        when there is time?
What is formlessness
        when there is form?
Being here, loving your body,
        I can not foresee
                eternities more serene.
The moon never suffers
as the savior suffers.
However, the moon is so swollen
with love, we can be convinced
of our survival.
Go ahead, sleep many hours
and have lucid dreams.
If you want to know who you are
indulge a whole season of character flaws
and wander aimlessly
mimicking prayer.

I heal.
I say it the same
to all- "No!"
My body dies
and leaves love alone.

No one knows what I am talking about
but everyone knows I am right.
The moon never suffers
as the savior did suffer.
However, the moon is so swollen with love,
we are assured of our survival.

Go ahead, sleep many hours
and have lucid dreams.
If you want to know who you are,
indulge a whole season of character flaws,
and wander aimlessly mimicking prayer.

I heal.
I say it the same
to all- "No!”

No one knows what I am talking about,
but everyone knows I am right.
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.
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.
Horsemen linger unnoticed in the corners
of what might have been while the mind
is preoccupied by the redundant affairs
of making love.

Evil is a man's business, and right now
business is real good, even though
there is nothing to covet and nothing to buy.

This is our Kingdom. Let us establish holidays,
so that we may celebrate our dubious citizenship.

Despite the protests of the genuine,
as long as we keep lying
we shall gain access
to all the common ecstasies.
It was awkward when I stumbled into my lover
as my intention was to be more coy,
but an ache jumped to the tip of my tongue,
and I tripped on the fat toe of desire.
Eye to eye, we are naked in love
falling as a gentle, spring shower
with all the power to waken
the slumbering hillsides of grass.
I am begging for mercy.
There is no voice
for this body lost.
I abandoned beautiful things
before they could abandon me.
Now, full of poison,
I look upon our youngest relics,
and how their naïve sway
dictates the commerce of the streets,
and I weep, unsure if they or I am lost.

I am begging for mercy.
By your grace, I rediscover
the nails hammered
into my jaw and forehead.
Perhaps you never extracted them
despite my years of folly.
I know you are near.
Like a good lover, you counsel
more sincere than any Wise Man.

         Do not be intimidated by beauty.
         There are no kingdoms,
         no pleasures-  only time.
         "Reality is the coincidence
         of *** and death."
         Embrace our anonymous love
         and release the healing passions
         more ****** than a begging bowl.
The "reality is the coincidence of *** death," line is not mine. I think it's from one of the later Hindu texts, but can't recall which. Just want to get some sort of citation out there.
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 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.
My redemptive acts float
above recognition.
They are rooted in desire,
and need, and love.
They are impossible to eulogize
because they are as common as
shrugs or affirmations
delivered by my timid eyes.

You all know these acts.
You have no life without them.
A baby knows them soon as he, or she,
grabs teddy, and bites
his soft brown nose.
They are nothing moments.
They are valueless commodities
disregarded on the markets
of pride and sentiment.
They give no lessons.
They're just dumb and true
and they fear the advance of death
no more than boulders fear
the waters of a lake.

During a good long life you get
about a thousand or so such moments.
In one of those brief, tragic lives
you get maybe a hundred,
maybe even less. But of course,
tabulating them near or at the end
is about as smart and useful
as shoveling that lake.

They tell me that I am,
just like you, the way a grackle
is just like a grackle, or a lion cub
is just like all other lion cubs.
They tell me, that yes, life is pretty cool,
and that I will miss it,
and I will miss you.
...and, I'm not really dying in the typical sense, but in the poetic sense- who's to say.
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.
The people approach with their codified fears,
the ones written for the protection of securities
that flinch and flee in the face of loving and dying,

and they successfully convince me to not dare
have that thought beyond the thought, and not move
my limbs through postures choreographed by passions

stoked far beyond our minds, and not approach you
with a daring beyond my timid heart to give you
a reckless slap on the shoulder and pinch on the thigh.

Don't do these things, for beyond is only the sparks
dancing above the fire, burning out quickly on the wind,
and that's no fortune you can retain to prop up your children
wading among the fear of the people.
My first verse written with Hello Poetry in mind, as it's readers might actually relate, and that's really a big comfort to me.
He pinched my tongue
between his thumb and fore finger
and with a good yank
dislocated it from the base of my spine,
and slid it out my mouth.

He said, "if you're not going
to use this, then I will."
He draped my tongue
over his shoulders
and it took on new life,
hissing and slithering
like the viper of redemption.

Now, I look inside myself,
and all I see is a hillside
bleeding fire. The best
I can do is scribble down
a few words about that breathless voice.

The secret is not selective,
but it is destructive.
Familiarity with eternity
breeds annihilation,
so I hop around
from anonymity to anonymity
no longer cherishing
the days I claimed, "I am."
The scent of orchid is so confident tonight.
Swathed in it, we nearly collapse.
The half moon tries to reassure us.
It tips our love onto its brighter side.

Pleasure comes in rude little waves
and steals composure off our shy faces.
Cresting at the *******
your brown ******* slip from yourself
and into my mouth.
The insights hit like bolts,
but fade like the tide.

Do revelations have patience,
because already I have forgotten
the reciting of our scripture.
Even if you and I collect
a million rain drops tonight,
we still won't have the rain.

Still, let's do nothing different
except let out shadows
walk away together
and let the moisture
clean our flesh without hesitation.
Then we'll let it burn.
        Let the tall grasses burn,
        and our wet desires burn,
        and our bodies burn,
        and all our prayers burn.
Imagine if every breath
were as sweet
as the prayer smoke.
Spring's breeze feels
about the open window,
and my shy body
opens wide its eyes.

The perfumes of magnolia and
the crescent moon hanging
onto the end of the street
save my life.

There is nothing between us
but a sheet of pleasure, thin,
the way lighting strikes anywhere.

Indeed, momentary trust
is the wisest thing,
even in this dangerous world.
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.
I hope death is a woman - a big, beautiful, black woman, who will instruct me on the ways of the crossing-

            “Before the union,
              is the mingling
              of your suffering and joy
              shuffled with your then and now
              most true in the ways you were
              never right or wrong,
              only anxious in your loving
              better.”

And I will defend myself with my wisest words –

“Amazing!
  Though I’d never practiced,
  I knew to kiss you right there.”

and-

“There is so much terror in this life,
  prayer is bound to be effective.”

and-

“Don’t make it small. Make it round
  and sweet, like all good fruits.”

and-

“Even the most sincere privilege,
  a poet’s fame,
          will not save me from death.”


I believe she will smile, touch her finger to my forehead, and permit my disappearance, into that wet, wet love that holds your longing as you undress.
No allusions to talking sticks,
or metaphors of a chrome plated god,
because it's only life.

I can make use of a woman
with supple ankles stepping off the bus
kindling my hips and heart,

(but you've heard that one before,)
and, it's only life, so this might
just read like an instruction manual,

or both halves of a confessional,
but there will be no use made
of dancing dogs or moonlight

in battle, because it's only life,
and I have never really known
what it is I want to say to you.

It’s something like, "I love you,"
but asides from just being
very frightening to say,

I also think, it's more.
If it's only life, it's also
only death,

and what can be said that penetrates
death. What can be said
that won't collapse like engine failure

in the span between you and I,
if I try to say an "I love you"
that's truer than death.
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 think it's a good idea
to base society on the family,
and base the family on lust.
I want to leave my house quickly, travel quickly,
journey to the neighborhoods of my youth,  
and honor the bones of my parents.
I will weep,
and I will recall,
and go to the ocean.

I know I want to do this,
because I have permitted you
to convince me, that you
and I are important,
convince me that the
rituals and rules we've
conspired to serve for the
secure worshiping of our wealth
are important, that I should
fret, be weary, and despair.

The gods expend no effort.
They look sidelong at our efforts,
and catching their gaze,
I remember, I remember them,
I remember them.
And I am so comforted,
now willing to toss this body,
that we've marked with
sticky tags and pronouncements,
toss it towards the elements
that the gods value,
as they can do useful things with them,
such as reinventing creations
bloated with more love.
You remember - the elements - the fire, the winds,
the oceans.

The ocean, where I want to go,
when I leave this house, quickly,
with you neither invited nor uninvited.
You will know if it's a good idea
to follow, if your personality quakes,
but your soul is well comforted.
Go to the ocean, where and when
my being or not being will have
no concern to me,
as I love the gods,
and I love my parents,
and I love you,
all that maters.
The physical sport of love
is simple and brief.
The hard act to refine is
sitting around being beautiful.

Devoted service is so tired unlike
neglect which is ageless and vibrant.
See, there is no absolute evil,
but there is plenty of absolute fear.
In the Citadel of Suffering,
our confusion masquerades as comfort,
and desert tribes without delusions,
for some strange reason, lead the way out.
We will escape the fortress
despite the beauty and fire,
but no one will praise our freedom,
because we now wear horse head masks.


On the other side of a fever,
you’ll find a vulnerable garden.
If you bring three things there-

      a fearless step forward,
      a knowing brush of the hand,
      and a wild but gentle smile,

then you can disperse the hard knots
of ignorance,
so that the children may know peace.
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.
I want to be a valued commodity
on the market of eternal youth,
but I have no currency except
as dried bones that groan
about salvation when rattled.

            Excellence will kiss
            with flame
            the soft skin
            of every
            beautiful child.

Still, I try to taste fire
because I want to run unhindered
across the plains of midnight visions-
and then there are no words,
but there is the moon.

Suffering is a thick liquid
that saturates our scalps,
and prayers happen while full of fear
as the arrows of evil
are aimed at us.

I try to be attractive, physically pleasing
to both the living and the dead.
My tongue wags and is rude,
but it heals while it offends.
Between death and conception,

God is fierce like the prophet's grin,
so trace the footsteps of prostitutes,
mendicants and wild beasts,
because a putrid odor is telling us
about a different path.

Now, let me take that naked taste
of truth that swells inside your belly.
Our lust will tip over
and flood the streets.
Then, we'll take a timeless walk
through our neighborhood of time.
In a crowd of
common men and women
the most valuable are
the young and the lovely.

Research the consequences
of a coy look
by painting your body
and flicking your tongue.

I am very shy, but
bold are the curves
of my body, which
allure and ruin.

I pay a fair price
for what is bartered...
...the rest I steal using
tricks of seduction and devotion.

We cover our bodies
in secret signs, because
we don’t want to be righteous,
but we do want to be redeemed.

The worship of youth decays,
and leaves only questions about
what wild and wise things
are worth accomplishing before death.
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 embraced my lover,
and noticed she was dying,
not now, but always dying.
So I spanked her with magic numbers-
      seven, and nine, and forty,
and my clothes fell from me,
and my body fell from me,
and she was fearless as heaven,
and this was love.
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.
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