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

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

I can not see you anymore
now you've flown into the sun,
but that is how life ends,
lovely, and without words.

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.

I created you to comfort me,
which work out well.
Until, you asserted yourself
and let me suffer

My father died in his sleep.
My heart filled with gratitude,
and I touched the ashes of
his remains without hesitation.

I walked close to her - the curvy,
tanned girl who raised her naked
leg. I walked closer to her, claiming
the comfort of our naked kisses.

I have done these things, brave,
only to extent that I was reassured
by the anonymity of loves conflagration.
You have done these things as well,

and so we are instructed-

      If your going to stand,
            stand tall, and light.
      If your going to fall,
            fall heavy.
      If your going to pray,
            call to heaven
            with all your body,
            all your beauty,
            all your sorrow,

      and know.

Aggression holds my attention
like watching our slow roll
forward into doom.

Evil is a man's business,
and right now,
business is real good.
Even history cannot harbor
the infidels
who make civilization sublime.

Our suffering is a thick liquid
that saturates our scalps,
but wait long enough,
and we will see something beautiful,
like compassion between two bodies,
or death unmasked as eternity.

I am unprepared
when my child asks,
"why have you cursed me
to this life?"
I muster only a shy grin
and ramble some about
dancing and destiny.

To succeed, be sure
to slaughter the innocent.
A fever is a fractured
wisdom which hallucinates
landscapes that long
to host your victories.
To the East is clarity.
To the West is attainment.
Even in this dangerous world,
momentary trust is the wisest thing.

Like a wild animal,
you heighten my senses as needed.
Smell is heightened for loving.
Sight is heightened for healing.

I do not love you with my mind,
I love you with my body.
Slight flicks of my fingers
along your naked lips
are the perfect sacraments
even if they are dumb sacraments.

A dangerous dance
jumps out of your hips.
A conflagration
jumps out of the dream,
and spreads like love
till all is ashes.

Why do we spit when it is  already raining?

          It is a reasonable question
          between you and I
          when we call things finished
          or perhaps just interrupted.

          Hey, it is just an accident
          during which we start to believe
          that love is greater
          than the collapse of time.

How wise are we to be fools chasing love?

          We have a brilliant future
          ahead of us during which
          we will  invent
          magnificent new ways to suffer.

          Wade far enough out into our sorrows
          and we will see something beautiful,
          like love between two bodies
          or death disguised as eternity.

I am such a failure,
and I am echoing
the most refreshing
laughter during this recounting,
because while I wither,
I dumbly take
an interest in the gods.

They are right over there
just sort of swaying in the
magnolia blooms' creamy flow.
I believe their dance deciphers love,
but as agreed, I am too dumb
to understand. I only hope
that the new born's smile

upon my face, will beckon the rejoicing
of your tomorrows soon to come.

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.

The journey to no where
will abandon us,
so let's traverse life
with a strong rope
of good excuses,
and remain alert
for a melee of ******
forgiveness happening
          on the side of the road.

So how can it be that my life
has not become a sweltering series
of orgiastic celebration?

I mean, I know from the recording
of my original passion that I've been
baptized in the obligation of surrender-

          "come to me woman and tell me
           are you of the sun or the moon
           come to me man and tell me
           are you of the land or the sea
           cause I love you dearly
           and I must know"

And yet, here I am still burdened
by the routines and the fears
for my children's fortunes.

I'm grateful and all, no doubt,
but I still refuse to hear death's call
until you and I perform our
          scandalous, sacrificial acts

that will force death to approach
with at least a little more candor,
at least pretending to be my friend.

The equality of this creation
is maddening to a criminal of affection
as desperate as me.
We are conceived,
we are here,
we live and we can love,
and we are about to die,
all of us the same.

It is a conflagration so fair,
it makes me want to rip out
one of my short ribs, and use it
to poke the god's in their eyes.
It is a design so ripe
for cruelty, but so equally
inclined to the passion
of our tender love
that it must burn brighter than hope
in the universe's beyond.

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.

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.

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 hear wounded music
accompanying a limping dance,
so I hunt the moon
when it’s low on the horizon
because that’s where it is vulnerable
but still so succulent and auspicious.

Come and know me.
I am going to a far off place-
two moons, twenty whales
with suffering celestial eyes,
seven black-headed snakes,
three dark women, and one house.

It will be difficult
for us all
when I return,
because then the salvation
will appear as the suffering.