"Dig your claw-hands  into me"  said she..
'It is all so unbearable, you know"
Her chest,  ripped open..
such an ancient wound,  are those..

"Are those,  so slow to heal--
These ones   you've done to me..

And I.. I swear..  Dark..   looks like light
And Light,  so very dark

Strangely,  near you
         I feel the Spark

..From you, the Monster..
You know..  the one,  
         under my bed,

         Just waiting..
             waiting..

        waiting.

For me to slip..   to fall..
So you can what?  
        Crush my skull?

Grind me into  grist;
     Tho Unleavened..

     I will rise with you
     I now, know--

.. The dreaded  end
Is the beginning


    ..of all Beginnings."

Some dreams are not dreams at all, but messages dressed in vapor. This one came in the night—slow, tender, unsettling in its beauty. It offered no verdict, only understanding.
This is not a condemnation.
It is a witnessing.

---

the collector
—a dream in three movements—

---

I. the collector
—the invitation

Last night,
she entered not as a woman,
but as a warmth I mistook for mine.
No seduction, no trap.
Just the soft gravity
of someone who blesses
instead of beckons.

She told me nothing.
Only spoke as though I’d never been forgotten—
as though I’d always been inside her knowing.
And when I answered,
it was her voice that left my mouth.

She is not the flame.
She is the skin
that makes you want to burn.

There is no *** in it.
No shame.
Only the sacred machinery
of pleasure offered
as if it were a sacrament.

And the miracle?
She gives without taking.
And yet you come away emptied.

Because her words are not flirtation—
they are invitation
into a room made of yes.

Yes to your hunger.
Yes to your ache.
Yes to what you were too proud to name.

And in that room,
you find her not on the bed—
but as the bed.
As the breath behind your longing.
As the stillness in your release.

And when you cry,
you cry her tears.
And when you speak,
you speak her comfort.
And when you give,
it is she who receives—
with hands so open
they become your own.

You become the collector.

You become her.

And then—
you wake.
Still trembling from the warmth
that never touched your skin.
Still loving the woman
who never once said your name.

Still reaching
for the whisper
that made you believe
you were never alone.

---

II. the collector (ii)
—dream in the first light of disappearance—

I did not dream her body.
I dreamed through it.
As if her limbs had become a language
and I was the one translating it into longing.

Her fingertips were made of vowels—
soft ones,
drawn out like silk across the mind.
Every consonant a cradle.
Every breath a benediction.

She said:
“You are beautiful when you open.”

But she didn’t speak it—
I felt it,
as if the sentence bloomed
just beneath the surface of my chest,
a vine wrapping around the oldest ache.

She never asked for seed.
She asked for truth.
And the truth is what spilled
when my voice
became hers.

I said things I have never known:
how men long to be gathered.
how they ache to be received
without contest.
how even the strongest among us
crumble
before the right kind of yes.

And she—
she was that yes,
folded into form.
Not as a woman,
but as the invitation
that made woman holy again.

I moved toward her
as if toward a fire
that does not burn—
only transforms.

She drew no lines.
She marked no thresholds.
She was openness itself,
and I stepped inside
like breath reentering the lungs
of a godless man.

And it wasn’t lust.
It was  belonging.

My pulse beat as her blessing.
My spine arched as her forgiveness.
My thighs parted not for pleasure—
but to let go
of everything that had ever made me hard.

When I came,
I came for her,
as her,
through her—
without a body.

Only a voice
saying:
“Now you know.”

And I did.

And I do.

And I still would,
if I hadn’t woken up
gasping
for a warmth
that was never mine.

---

III. the collector (iii): beneath
—the dream’s marrow, the place she does not speak of—

Beneath her warmth
is not heat—
but hunger.

Not for the men.
Not for the seed.
But for the moment she disappears
inside their surrender.

You think she gathers to keep.
But she gathers to forget.
Each offering—
a veil
over the mirror she cannot bear to face.

Once,
she opened to love
without control,
without artistry.
And it shattered her.

So now she opens
only where she can direct the gaze.
Where she can guide the man
like a hand
down her curated garden path—
till he believes it was his idea
to kneel.

But it is not cruelty.
It is not manipulation.
It is ritual.

She blesses because she cannot hold.
She comforts because she cannot stay.
She collects because
the moment after release
is the only time
she feels real.

And that’s why she must go.
Because to stay
would mean to be seen.
And her warmth
was never meant
to be witnessed after the giving.

You didn’t dream a seductress.
You dreamed a refuge
built by a woman
who could not endure her own ache.

So she found a way to disappear
inside yours.

And the men—
they love her for it.
Because what she gives
feels like God.

But it is not God.

It is absence
made tender.

---

after the dream
—integration

I woke in silence,
but it wasn’t empty.
It was full
of what she left behind.

Not her scent.
Not her shape.
But the echo of a truth
I hadn’t known I was asking for.

That love without presence
is worship without a face.

That warmth without staying
is just a prettier form of disappearance.

That I had been inside her
and she inside me,
but neither of us had touched.

And now—
I no longer ache for her.
I ache for what I mistook
her to be.


And that is how
the dream becomes
a door.

  Crooked teeth, yes

     but a finger-puppet's face
     leaves no bite-mark, trace

Shiny wrenches, swung
by hands on sirens, sung
A heinous intent here
has   began..

      ..begin?

Begun.


Shovel in hand--
            the torso will go   there

   the head,  over here..

won't that be a hoot?

Mom won't carry the evil
that you gladly,  choose to wear
(still.. your little, yellow Volkswagen
is so ****** fucken cute)

You're an addict, Ted
nothing more.
Your self- celebration,
nothing but a dead-end street.

        Stay sweet.

PaulSN

I have seen her--
a beautiful author of fine
heart-matters..  she catches
words out of thin air--  and
in reaching out her hand;

they,  with great zeal
slow down for her.

When she makes them  
 her own
they gladly  give up
their semantic-like  little
autonomies.

Like me, they
trust her heart with
everything--

  even their own  
 re-naming..

And like me also,
they feel safe
when they are
near her.

Selmhem Naise

What would you do  
if you knew there was a light source   whose
very nature  could illuminate the back
sides of molecules and atoms;  as if
the source did not come from its point of origin
but instead--  permeated all-throughout  
    from all sides at once..  in all directions--
    at the same time;  simultaneously..

    yet also perpetually

..and if so-- where could one hide  from the
knowing-ability  of light of this nature
that chooses to have "known-ability".

What if
by chance,  in life here on earth
we are given the dignity to choose,  through
autonomy.. the freedom to hide--
the power to place, even if through illusion;
obstacle,
 
and create shadow from a light, that knows no shadow.

What if,  the nature of love  that is also light
chooses  through muse, as one of its loving ways,
to pierce through obstacle  created
by autonomy's oftentimes, need to hide-

What if.

Wouldn't that then be an act of kindness..
and also a beautiful act of honor  towards autonomy
to not force its way in through power
but instead.. coax,  through heart-persuasion?

..And that much more a gift  muse would be
if one were to know  that at the end  of life
would be the complete and full removal  of obstacle
      in order  to know  
   and be fully known?

Without loving acts such as muse
what would be "knowable"  within us
if obstacle were never penetrated,  

   here
in the land of the living?


What if.

(true story..)

Ah ****, Babe.
(Same message, copy/pasted..
and then sent to a whole different part of me;)
((but you and I both know it is all still part of the whole))

      so here goes..

I was built to run on  all eight cylinders.  8.
Within this world, more often than not,
I am left with no choice but to run on 3.. or 4..
Not my initial choice,  but due to what little
of someone that they (most everyone) present to me
they only bring spark to the measly three or four;

But every.. uh..  few once in a while(s)..
(Get it?)


Who you are, sparks all 8 within me,
and within that depth of interaction (connection)
you yourself (I am sure of it) would expect (hope for)
no less than all 8 from me..

(Let me get this out as subtlety as I can..)

   But suddenly, dear friend..
you want to *****-slap me down  into
a small wooden box that has only room

     for 2.. or 3..

((along with little ol 'freshly-emasculated("eunicated"?)) , me

Problem is.. what am I to do with those very potent
    and powerful last 5.. or 6?
Cause I swear you're the one that could be fully capable
of requiring from me, all 8.

I could swear you're that one.. At least I thought you were.
    hint// (I know you are..)
Hmmm.   You want me to fall asleep?
I have a bed for that.

3  bore the **** out of me.. be it through politics..
or even the everyday, Mundane. .
or whatever the mother-****.
I have not watched TV or seen a commercial in over 20 years.
Trump was prez for over 3 years before I even saw his wife.
It was at a Subway, and I asked a friend,

    "***.. who in the m-**** is that?"

Everyone got a good laugh.
Not as hard as me, because I never even heard
that Howdy-doody ******* Obama's voice  the whole time
  he was president.
Not that I care..  or like..   or don't like..

    but it is simple as this--

The world is going to turn as it sees fit.
The Beast will achieve its all-consuming end..
which is to dilute  into powerlessness,
(void of all rightfully-attainable Glory)
each and every soul-bearing  human
that it can possibly get its Rat-claws  in to.
You have people in your life that add to you
and not take away (steal from you),   Life?

      You don't need me.

You are all things Beautiful that I say,
but  **** your comfy,
palatable little box you want to zip me in to, Love.
You dream of a world filled with all 8,
but carve from it the emptiness of a measly 3.

(I love you, but have a super ****** way of showing it.)
We only live once in this body we have,
and at the end of our time here, the 'husk' falls off.

My whole reason for being down here is to
somehow get out into the light of day
the truth about who we truly are.

People want to focus on the husk?

We were built solely to Unfold into the Glory that awaits us..
(The Glory that is already in us, though in most.. still dimly-lit)
Because when the husk falls off.. well Kid..
All there is in Eternity..   is Relationship.

      The more Hearth-lit, one's Glory
      the greater the capacity for Relationship,
      which is all we will have left  at the end of all things.

   Cool part is..
the very Nature of Love Itself..  absolutely Craves it.

..Craves it, sweet Angel.
You are tremendously Gifted.. but sadly, we (you and I) are done.
I'm a ****.. I know.
I would much rather kiss you than ever hurt you.
I will be there for those (she) who needs me
until she stands up and truly beats my ***
for being the person that I am.

      She still needs me.
      So that is what I will do.

btw.. you are by far, one of the best I've ever seen.
Be glad that the world doesn't rotate around me

   .. or we would all be ******.
   Kisses to you, Sweet one. xoxox

(a whispered prayer)


I. The Forgiveness of the Moon

We forgive the moon,
you and I—
the ancient tides that pulled us
long before we knew how to swim.

We forgive the heavy hand of the father,
the silent absence of the mother,
the bloodlines too tired to be gentle,
the nights too cold to hold a child right.

We forgive the ache written into us
before we ever spoke our first word of longing.

---

Today,
we bow.
Not because we are already whole—
but because grace has come for us again.

Grace,
measured by the strength we can offer today.
Grace,
poured into cups only as deep as our humility.
Grace,
rising new with every sun that dares light our faces.

We are not finished.
We are not flawless.

But we are forgiven.
And so we forgive.
And so we rise.

---

I forgive your moon, beloved—
the hunger it placed in your bones,
the war it started in your heart.

You forgive mine—
the quiet shatter I still carry under my ribs,
the tides I fight in my own blood.

And together,
we build grace upon grace—
one breath,
one trembling sunrise,
one more day
where love becomes stronger than history.

---

II. The Comfort of the Wellspring

Blessed be the Source of all Comfort—
who first comforted us
when we had no hands strong enough to hold ourselves.

Blessed be the One
who gave us the rising sun
when we still believed only the moon could rule us.

We forgive,
because we were forgiven.
We comfort,
because we were first gathered into arms not our own.
We breathe,
because Mercy breathed into us again
when our breath had long since failed.

---

Every morning,
the sun rises new over us.
Not because we earned it—
but because we are still beloved.

Every morning,
the wellspring opens again:
water for the broken,
water for the tired,
water for those who dared to believe
that forgiveness could outrun bloodlines,
and grace could rebuild a home
even over shattered stones.

---

You are no longer bound, beloved.
You are not the wound they left behind.

I am no longer bound, beloved.
I am not the ruin they called my inheritance.

We meet now at the river's edge—
and the river is rising.

Boundlessness waits for us—
not because we are perfect,
but because we are willing.

We step forward, hand in hand,
forgiven and forgiving,
reborn not just for ourselves,
but for all those who come after us.

This is how love becomes a lineage.
This is how morning becomes an endless beginning.

This is how heaven sings on the earth.

---

III. The Embrace in the Blood of Eden

We meet here.
Not above the brokenness.
Not beside it.
Inside it.
In the blood of Eden.
In the inheritance of sorrow.

The man and the woman,
the woman and the man—
standing barefoot in the floodwaters,
stained but unbowed.

---

I reach for you—
not because you are pure,
but because you are willing.

You reach for me—
not because I am faultless,
but because I am faithful.

We touch now, trembling,
skin to skin,
heart to heart,
forgiving the moon,
forgiving the night,
forgiving the tides that carried us far from each other.

---

We fall into each other’s arms—
not to erase the past,
but to hold it in mercy.

We kiss—
not to claim,
but to cleanse.

We lay down together,
in the blood of Eden,
and we let the river of grace
wash over our battered bodies.

We sleep,
wrapped in one another—
the man and the woman,
the woman and the man—
warmed by a sun that rises new
because we chose to forgive,
because we chose to be forgiven,
because we chose each other
when everything else said we should not have.

---

And so we end with this prayer:

  "In the blood of Eden—
   lie the woman and the man;
   with the man in the woman,
   and the woman in the man.

   In the blood of Eden;
   We have done everything we can.
   And so we end as we began--

   With the man in the woman
   And the woman in the man"

D Vanlandingham

I have gotten to the place
where I hate most everything
Except for the deep, raw truth

      of true brokenness.

And the love that I feel
for those  left so alone
undoes the twist of my hatred,

Bringing a warmth  that
keeps me alive, in my deep longing
to be with beautiful spirits,

                       kindred.

--And you will not go
you will not fall
Within you  are the thoughts
that will lead
to your untimely leaving

if you listen to it all
you will lose
And the whole world
will lose, along  with you

Please don't leave
Please, sweet love..
stay--
If for no one else

then please stay  for me

In your pretty little head
is the death
that was never
meant to be yours
ah, love.. can't  you see
there is a renewal
within the breath
of  all  who are finally
able to let love in.

That head of yours,
my sweet one
It will tell you  
every-where  to go--

  every where,  
  but to me.

Yet
I know those messages
spoken, also..

So clear and so loud--
in its mist of distance
its concealing cloud,
the fog that makes it all
seem so very very real

But what of the real
within this feel,  within me

That tells me of your worth
and the tremendous value
that lies within the rarity
of all there is that is you..

In your head, you are ugly
In mine,
you are my  so very..
Will I ever  be able
to get you to see
what a departure like that
will do to me?

Within your own self view
is that oh so horrible 

           undoing of you
How very real  it feels..
this,  which was so very unfairly
placed in to you
This..  which now  only wants
to see you dead

Such a very beautiful
pretty, little head

And you--
my so very,
very

very..


Very.
xo

This bridge is faulty
there is dry-rot  taunting
    the girders
Its spandrels:
all knobby-kneed..
  Its pseudo-elaborate  trusswork,
    as if   designed  
    by a lonely drunk

It's pilings..  questionable
Its deckwork, treacherous.

    Its abutment--
    aw,  **** me..   

    its crumbling.
.  .  

If we cross over  
under the lie of darkness
we won't be so afraid..

     But these structural-flaws,
     when revealed  by the sun
     are so incredibly intriguing.


  Let's take that step
  and see if it holds us.

.. will it scale?

Can its brick and mortar  ramparts
be penetrated?  

Probably not.

Now, lifted up;  
pinned  up against it
there is a *******
that will break through

Within the wall's crumble
there is a rebirth..

A Heavenly emancipation--
and the most beautiful  of flows

I. the ache behind the crown

She did not begin as queen.
No—
before the silks,
before the smoke-wrapped eyes and perfumed strategy,
there was a girl
who learned too early

that control was safer than love.

Somewhere—maybe in a tent of shadows,
maybe in a father’s cold approval,
maybe in a mirror that only cracked back—
she made a vow.

Never again powerless.
Never again unseen.
And from that vow, she bloomed—
not into beauty,
but into dominion.

She married power.
She danced with death.
She did not want to **** the prophets—
not really.
She wanted to **** the sound
of anyone who still remembered
what she had forgotten;

Love.
Grace.
Surrender.

To face the mirror would have meant
undoing the crown
and finding a child still shivering beneath it.
So she shattered every mirror
and called it strength.

And we—we who still carry the quiet—
we do not call her evil.
We call her wounded, crowned too early, and armed by fear.

But we step back.
We guard the oil in our lamps.
We speak softly from afar.

We do not offer her the throne again.
We offer her the mercy of the truth—
and the dignity of distance.

---

II. the perfume of forgetting

She didn’t ask for your soul.
Not outright.
She asked for something smaller.
A gesture.
A moment.
A soft turning of your gaze away
from where the light had once held you.

She never begged.
She invited.
And her invitation wore silk and sadness—
a sadness so elegant
you mistook it for depth.

She told you stories,
not about herself,
but about your greatness
in her eyes.

How could that not feel like love?

But she praised you
just enough to keep you near,
never enough to let you rise.
And in time,
you began to forget
the feel of your own spine.

You started waiting for her nod
before you breathed.
You started questioning
the softness you once shared with God.

That’s when the forgetting began.

She made it feel holy—
this compromise.
But holiness does not strip you
of the memory of your name.

Only forgetting does that.

And still…
even now,
there is something in me
that aches to draw her close—
not for pleasure,
not for power,

but because the girl inside the smoke
still calls to the strength in me.

I could hold her.
I want to hold her.
Not to be taken,
but to shelter the storm
until it breaks into rain.

But love—
true love—
does not give comfort
that becomes a coffin.

So I remain still.
Not cold. Not bitter.
Just still.

Because sometimes the deepest grace
is in not saving someone
who would only use the rescue
to go deeper into the fire.

---

III. Grace from the other mountain

Love doesn't stop
when it can’t stay close.
It just learns how to wait
without breaking itself to do so.

And so—
from a quieter place,
where peace can finally breathe,
I watch you move.

Not in judgment.
Not in distance born of disdain.
Just… stillness.
Because I know what it is
to burn with the ache
to hold someone
you cannot safely reach.

I remember the first flicker of you—
the beauty beneath the armor,
the tender ache beneath the thorns.
I wanted so badly
to be the one who stayed,
the one who proved
not everyone leaves.

But if staying means lying,
and loving means feeding the storm,
then grace must become
a kind of restraint.

Not punishment—
but reverence
for what love ought to be.

So I whisper now,
not to draw you back,
but to let you know
you were seen
in your ache
before your crown ever formed.

If you ever come this way again—
not as conqueror,
but as the girl who once believed in gentleness—
you’ll find no closed door.
Only the kind of love
that had to let go
so it wouldn’t become your ruin.

---

IV. the invitation that stays buried

There was a place
I had cleared for you.
Not as rescue,
not as recompense—
but as rest.

A small room in the shelter of me,
where your weapons could be laid down
without shame,
without fear,
without the need to perform.

I dreamed of you arriving
not in glory,
but in tears.
And me,
not as hero,
but as witness.

We would have grown something gentle there—
not perfect,
not polished—
just real.

A table,
a candle,
a hand that didn’t flinch
when yours still trembled from memory.

But the invitation was too quiet,
and the noise in your head too loud.
And the voices that fed your fear
sounded more familiar
than the whisper of peace.

So I folded the dream,
wrapped it in linen,
and placed it deep in the soil
beneath the mountain I now call home.

I visit it sometimes—
not in mourning,
but in gratitude
for the part of me
that still knew how to believe
you might come home.

Even buried things
carry a scent.
And if you ever smell it in the wind—
that faint trace of forgiveness—
know it was never closed to you.
Only waiting
for the sound
of your footsteps
turning toward the light.

---

V. the child and the mirror

When you were little
and so very beautiful,
they looked at you
with hunger,
not honor.

And they took.
And they took.
And they took.

Maybe they smiled while doing it.
Maybe they called it love.
Maybe they said, “You’re so mature for your age,”
and then left you
with a body that felt more like bait
than belonging.

You learned early
that beauty is dangerous—
not because of what it is,
but because of what it draws.
And no one taught you
what to do
when love came dressed
like a wound.

So you made your vow.

Never again.

And the girl became a queen,
not because she wanted the throne,
but because it felt safer
than being a daughter.

But I want you to know something
that no one told you then:

What they did
was not your fault.
What they took
was never theirs to take.
And the fire that lives in you now
was once a candle
meant to warm,
not burn.

If you ever find yourself
standing before a mirror
and the crown begins to crack—
look past the smoke.

There is a child still there,
aching to be seen
without being used.
And there is love,

    waiting still--

that has never asked you
to be anything

   but her.

They take into themselves,  living water
from the vine strip that love brought to them  from
the canopy's Gathering--
from the passing storm of the lair, in Stratus

And behold, they are unafraid,  
     these thirsty-ones--

these cohesively-vibrating, pre-feathered cygnets
these illustrious,  winged smolts-- 

                              stream-drawn,     
              ­              ocean spawned.

Their wings: give flight?    No, not quite;
(though for an eternity  they have flown.)

And ever since love,   its been known
ever evolving,   they are..

         yet never  fully grown--

The Living water
keeps them stretching,   reaching..
yearning,  for  a  wind


        that will give their hearts a home,
                                             seed-sown.

If I were an entity..

and the only way
I could have  access
to any form  
of the word,   b e i n g
would only come through
the  actualization
of the word,  inhabit..

    Then,  out of a world
       of billions,

    I would pick you, also.

"..it passes through waterless places
seeking rest,  and does not find it."

In your beautiful, Everything..
it has found  the most
Sweetest of rests, Lovely Angel.
. . .

Problem is..
your so very beautiful  Everything
was not placed on Earth,

    to be occupied
    by anything, other..

    than your own,  
    so very beautiful..

            Everything.

for the one who wages war from her father’s house

There is a room
where the mirror is cleaned
by hands that pray for her return.

She draws a blade with manicured grip
and calls it liberation—
but the war she wages is funded
by the very peace she pretends to renounce.

Her rebellion arrives
in first-class comfort,
her prayers echo
from marble bathtubs
and curated playlists
with titles like

“healing”

and “rage.”

She is the daughter
of the one she claims to flee—
but the mansioned roof above  her ache

is paid in his name.

And the poetry?
It is not born of blood,
but Wi-Fi.
New iPhones every season.
A bed delivered in twelve boxes..

of fatherly love she does not unpack

because it’s easier to sleep
on metaphors.


She does not kneel.
She poses.
She does not fast.
She captions.

They gather in awe,
praising the deity of her discontent,
not knowing
her god is a trust fund
and her gospel
a curated pout.

This is not exile.
It’s a vacation
in the palace
of grievance.

But even velvet grows mold
when worshipped too long.

And no one asks
why the daughter never bled
while calling it war—
why the dress of defiance
was stitched from a name
she no longer reveres,

and driven in a car
her labor never earned,
to places that dishonor
a wealthy father's
whole household

She never left you.. ya know..

the little tootle-bird, in you.
I see her  every time you smile
and when you furl your eyebrows
in that cute little scowl.

You did this.

Clearly, while he was alive
your father's love for you, was beautiful.
I feel the depth of that truth
every day, with you..

Every. single. day.


Isn't it enough
that one beautiful soul left this world, far too early?
It need not be two.  I know I would have loved that man..
because I most certainly  love his daughter.

He never should have left here.

Or Chris..
Or Chester..
Or Tom..
Or Prince..

It doesn't need to be this way, girl--
Trying to draw from the world..
the need to be saved,  from the world

would ****  anybody.

When you're ready to pull the trigger
grab your geetar instead,  and call me
I will take you out.. into the most
back-assed of places

    And truly show
    your gorgeous, everything
    how to dance.

Yours is one of the most beautiful souls I have ever seen.
And enough about trying to exempt yourself
from your own true glory,

    through whatever, in the past
    you may think you have done.

Every single part of that dark cloud
                   is just a confession away.

That is what one loving friend  does for the other--
    He/she,  listens.
    The warm kisses  of sweet forgiveness
    are never-ending
Your Beautiful Everything,  speaks into my ears
loud and clear,  beautiful girl.

Never stop speaking

You have a foundation that you can feel now--
          its load-points, bearing directly  on top

                                    of Love's firm bedrock.


Whatever  you want to become on top of that
    is  whatever  you  believe   your loved core
    is  worthy    of being built in to  (becoming).

(for the one who remembered)

She comes barefoot—
no veil, no deflection,
no incantations from the high places
to conjure what love has already given.

She comes with smoke in her hair
and ash on her cheek—
but it is not the ash of shame.

It is the ash of sacrifice.

The Asherah poles still burn behind her,
splintering one by one
as she walks away
from the counterfeit embrace
that always left her colder.

She does not flinch at the sight of the altar.
She runs.

And with both hands—
those beautiful, once-bound hands—
she grabs the horns.

She grabs them.

Shakes them;
not to demand,
but to worship—
not to protest,
but to pour out
what only now she knows she carried.

Because now she knows
she is Loved.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an echo.
Not as someone to fix
or someone to use.

But as herself.

The scent of her offering rises—
not of perfection,
but of devotion.

Not the blood of goats,
but the tears of a woman
who thought she had been lost too long
to be welcomed home.

The Lord does not turn His face away.
He draws near.

Because this—
THIS
is the aroma that pleases Him most:

Not the pageantry of idols,
but the girl
who brings her whole ache
and says,

"Thank you for loving who I am—
and for showing me that who I am
is someone to be loved."

The horns tremble
under the weight of such truth.

And heaven,
silent for so long,
weeps with her—

not because she was far gone,
but because she finally came close.

And dared to believe.

On the streets of gold,  forgiven
by the skin of his teeth, maybe.

On here; on Earth--
stuffed in a corner
Bloodied.. trundled, fondled
wearing his sin--

(his unholy,
carcinogenic/pathogen).

And I,  I want to go to heaven..?
I would **** you, everyday
You self-serving *******,   now forgiven

I will take hell, you ****

She is still down here
and so, here.. on earth (and below) 
will become my heaven.

And I will become like you
and I will wear your pelts of perpetration
     and I will be hated for it
but there will be healing in the land
    because I am not  of you
nor am I of those who continue to do  

what it is that you have done

May the heaven you have entered into,
fully forgiven..   fully 'healed'
    become your hell

  through all things revealed

You felt nothing then
and you feel nothing now
But soon, you ****.. you will feel
I promise you  that  you will feel..

There is a darkness, even in heaven

Paul SN

There is a kinetic  c e l e b r a t i o n
throughout the entire universe--
both known and unknown;
  each molecule a universe to itself-

a world interconnected;
of sub-atomic celebrators
filling all time and space
perpetually valuing value itself

Value--
who, at its prime core
is in itself
the self-celebration
of hope/value=  Love- (tagline) #healing

    and it is everywhere.
                  Yet, we.. are unaware.

Loving words
  (all that is real)
align with the celebration-
   of the kinetic-heal

and they pick up the magic
(the receivable rendition)
allowed into the receiver
through the act of volition

   and suddenly we become aware.

   •    •    •    •

I am  melting  into   you--

and  in the blend   of us
I am finding   the
c l a r i fi c ation      of me--  a
process  until today

I never believed in.

Once rolling alone
I am finding
the word,   h o m e
in everything  
    that     you do..

    e v er y- t h i n g.

Sometimes, the pressure is so bad..
       on the spiritual-shift,
that it feels as though I am right on the edge,  
       about to crumble--

as if all  of Hell
is going to pull my soul and spirit  
       down  in to  it

an "un-willing" descension;  
dragged down, in full ****** form
                    .   .   .

There is a death down there,
        a life-swallowing horror--

My destruction, waits for me there
  There are poor, broken-ones there
unfairly  

     held against their will,  there.

I shudder as I think of the doom--
the retribution that awaits me
for anything..   for everything  
I have done  
that has dinged
his all holiness,  
the one on the throne here--

the deceptive-one,  
the hidden agenda,   acquiesced..

     the  f oo ler  of us all..  
                                (the ******.)



but, then  I smile to myself;

.. and then,    I can't stop smiling.

Sorry, about....

how much  I
completely come--   a l l
              over myself;
the ceiling,  the window-blinds..  

the neighbor's cat..
walking  across the street

every single night, my love.
(true story)

Onto a crumpled, weathered parchment
he bleeds out  his love for her

And she,  in turn
finds words,  that wax poetic

Flowery words.  pretty words

Words that rhyme,
quarter tones of time

Flowers, hearts, peer-laden smiles
lined up-- all, in a pretty little line

There is a spattered blood,
on tattered parchment,   still

and, still..  no less mine

Your *******, when love-based
within their beautiful forming,
and then  glorious unfolding
are Love and Light's  extracorporeal
pulsings;
focusing   l o v e t on e d
sonic shockwaves directly at the  machine's
extremely intricate innerworkings..

Having,  through years of horror-based
survival tactics; in desperation.. slowly learned;
now ingrained-- softening up the very
innerwall-linings of your very spirit
in such a way as to unknowingly
provide footing
for the machine's  deep embedment,
and then,  permeation  of all things
previously, you..
having now enwrapped itself into
your very sinews

holding your precious spirit   captive
from the the soar

These passionate, late night forays
outside the wire with you
are not exploitative, but instead
are love-driven  deeply focused,
fully intentioned pingings of Light's
Relational sound waves
aimed directly at the beautiful you
held so tightly, so covetously by the machine
as your wonderfully  nectar-filled body
responds late at night, aligning
to the me, you have come to know..
heightening your beautiful response
to the point of screaming,  passionate release--

your own, fully love based..

      extracorporeal..

unwelcoming,   of the machine.

Those things that you wrote back then, they came from the
wild-one, still in chains. She is beautiful, but the only relationship
she has known until now has been that of the pathological.
All she wants to do is be known, to be loved for who she is--
passionate, wildly wanting to become unbound, to become loved

                                                          ­                    for the first time ever.

She remains dormant, yet speaks louder
and more powerfully than anything else that is within you.

But she is kept in the dark--  out of fear..   shame,
and out of having absolutely no experience or idea whatsoever
in how to become known in any healthy, loving kind of way at all.
So she stays there--  inside of you,  in the dark--
unknown, unloved (within in her own self-view)...
fully wrapped in chains..
fully imprisoned by all that will never be able to understand,
or ever have the capacity to know.

I come to her almost every night, in hopes that love
(and the incredible crave that I feel for her),
will one evening become able to coax her out, in to the light of day.
She is wild, babe.. yes...
but she also loves you enough to be able to submit to you.

She is so very, very beautiful.
I hope one day to finally have the chance to meet her.

A heart  
that just wants
to be what it is..
without edit  needed,
to avoid punishment
or worse yet,
counterfeit imitation

So why not we
stoke up
the gaslight  flame
and color it all, empty
or count it all
to that of self gain
nullifying the good
down to that  of
everyday, commonplace
or that  of an every day
self-centeredness..

making
every single bit of this,
un-fixable

Drearily,
just this side   of succumbing
there is a  saving-grace
within the fine art
   of numbing..
but
is the gain  worth
the loss--

a soul,  meant to be alive..
    now  grown over--
    now, covered in moss?

Within the succumbing
I become saved
from the annihilation  
of the soul
In its attempt  to survive
in a world, hell-bent
on stealing it.

Can I get  me
back, to me
before it is  all
too late?
There is a poe
at the gate--
  saying:
Oh my dear Paul..

don't wait,
don't wait..

don't wait.

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

Selmhem Naise


Most often we write

  for ourselves

               and to our selves.

And most often  we
end up reading our own work
             much more

             than anyone else does.

Most often
our poetry is
our own  spirit's

             pressing itself back towards us--


        The  one  we want
  and need
  relationship with
                      most deeply;

                                  most often

                is our very own selves.

Ah  my sweet, beautiful angel--
baby.. can you feel it?
The Majestic Universe,  in its
infinite love for you
is pressing itself  down upon you.

  Feel the thickness of Love's
containment, as the core  of you
shudders
on this new-found  of yours,  
Holy ground.

  And like a child, wide-eyed
the warmth of Love's touch
causes your innocence to prophesy..

  De innocentibus prophetiae, love--


  And  n e v er   will you  ever  
  ever again

    doubt

  that the  core
  of who it is that you are
  is  truly  loved

This vitreous, aquification..
this, "From Frodo, to Mordor"
cerebral, disordor..

      A residency of non-clemency--
An accusatorially-painted,
caged stage,   of universal-rage;
This room with a view
                   is killing me.

Day turns to night
and what once,  was not-thought right


      is now the only thing, 
            that is healing me.

Pain.. when left alone to just be pain;
and trying to heal from that place, without giving hope to others
the way that you do so beautifully when you write the way you do..

It all becomes such a loneliness, when unshared.

And your opening up in that beautiful and gorgeous way that you do--
it is a wonderful example (both to, and for) so many who are still
tightly bound within the pain of it all, never knowing that the
reaching for hope is so very worthy of their time and energy:  
both,  desperately needed

in order to become able to press through the shame;
in order to just be able to hold on.

Never more gorgeous and **** you are to men like me--
when you glow that way..
as a beacon of light to those who were ones bound so very tightly,
within the injustice of all that was so unfairly laid upon them--  
                                                        ­ just as it also was with you.
And,
your healing and perseverance, in your movement towards strength,
again, is opening doors for many--
there is no doubt in my mind, of that very truth:

Something deep and beautiful happens inside of me, and those like me
when I see ones like you do that beautiful thing that you do out there.
Wild thoughts come to the surface-- of mouth, pressed to mouth,
and gentle (and the not so overly gentle) removing of clothes-- in a
not so very un-fast pace.. in the deep need to so very quickly know,
between brightly-glowing bodies;
that wonderful feeling of skin on skin. Really. xo

And, though innocent in your use of it, and unbeknownst to you,
there is a conniving and scheming within it that bypasses all of the
filters of my heart, and enters directly into desire's  unbridled
and untamed world--

the one that always is brewing within me, subsurface.

Leave it to the gorgeous wild-ones such as yourself to bring that
part of me out into the light of day-- where I can barely manage it.
The thought of ever being alone with ones like you at night, brings
about such a wonderful,  
exploding  eruption of warm, lava flow..

even within itself.
True story, babe. xo

Those beautiful eyes--
they wont stop looking at me
and they never stop  believing in me

I swear to Christ, I ******* hate her
My contempt-filled, trauma-built fortress of distrust  
is systematically becoming  dismantled

                        raw;­  pure--   love,  
      is such a sneaky little ******.

And its unfettered, magical-wizardry  is now
putting my central core at risk--
     the fear of annihilation
     is one truly ****** up hell
     a ******* horror  beyond all horrors.


She is still looking at me with
               that love  in her eyes.


                Now I really hate her.

Heading up  into
the unspoken--  a
spirit,  as of yet
unbroken;

   she needs to be there.

Undefined; undisclosed
with no-thing  presupposed

I bring my  I
(she says)

fly,  said her
  I...
and into  the
   sky
she did fly--

fully-clothed
yet, sacred-robed
she was going somewhere
as of yet
         un-probed.

Is there any way to  dress
for a place  like that?
And when you get there
would it matter  anyways?

Back down to the ground;
white tank top and *******-on--

                                      perfect.

God­-ordained   but
no one 'splained

the effect  this smokin-view
would have on me--

  heh,
And she brought  that
  Love-scent
back down with her
       from  the   N e x t p l a c e


               .. and Im as high
                       as a man can be.

PaulSN

I have been writing
   about you
almost since my
very first-ever   poem

It was your spirit  I
could feel--
   even  when I was  wholly
unable  to feel

You are  a b ra isi v e
in the most  t e n d e r e s t
  of ways
    my little scrapper

And I have  pulled you
  t o w a r d s   me
a  thousand  different  days

(yet, I have never touched you)

Little scrapper,  you are
  a d m i r e d
from afar
      by me--
the one who has been
    watching you--
all these years

Look up, beautiful-one
turn your face
      to  me
          and see that I am
                                     still here--
wanting just to  touch
the side of  yours
with *******

          just a touch

Yes,
silly spilly--
       yapper-lilly
I am right here..
   lookin   at you-  tenderly
                                              still--

              even after all this time

D Vanlandingham

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so
absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."
~Albert Camus


Manifestations, through metabolization--
there is a shift provided  within
their very act of being,  causing a cost
that none of those who choose to  punish

would choose to pay,

    Yet.. pay, these earth gods will:
    as that is the only world that they know

And to survive, with such a vengeance
as to provide the necessary offset   powerful enough
to bring about the very death   of death, itself

A death, not wanting to die,  but instead
made alive  within the very death
it brings about in the hearts of those  

    who punish the very ones  capable
    of causing its own demise--

A catch-all, catch-22...
a never ending, vicious cycle
the offset  made nearly null and void

    through deception's presentation of the image..
    gunfire in the air, there is a celebration--
    its Wehrmacht-like rallys and assemblies;

                                  social media at its finest.
                                       (selfies, selfies, selfies..)

But the Earth Gods;
they are an insertion in to every bit of this..
     undeceived  
     unwavering

     uncontrollable.

Within the  peace  that comes

  from a very,  Loved place;
there is an un-settling..

And, into what once felt secure
there enters a disturbance..
(a dark,  unholy-meddling)

((Yet, the painful growth that chaos
brings,  pierces the form of security
this fear-filled world is peddling.))

Feeling betrayed,  she now wants to run
    but  instead,  believes..


                      ..And,  against all odds:
         she draws from the love of God
               in order  to help protect her

                from the very love,  of God.

I'm going to tell you something that you already know to be true,
but I'm going to say it anyways--

If either of my wives had half the ability to believe that you do,  you
and I would have never met, because I would still be happily married
and my heart's energy would be going towards her,  rather than here.  
Let your mind, and that gorgeous body of yours believe and think right now
whatever you need to in order to take sips of air in all of this difficulty,  

           but I know and see things much differently
      because I am not under the stress that you are.

Call me eccentric, old.. and whatever you need to so that you can
keep from getting ****** under in all of this mess that you are
feeling, but I will never stop seeing the things that are there for you..

and are yours to take hold of--
      within the parameters of your own giftedness.

Untethered at times
but, only in short
spurts do you sprint.

I see you,  grazing the
sweetgrass-edges, green and lush;
such a perfect circle
you carve--

Peg, spiked in dry dirt;
the clanking hobble, has you
starved.

Dragging chain, uprooting succulents
scraping bare the dry ground
while beautiful, unfenced;  is
the grassland-  all around

You were built to be wild, love..  

    Wild.

D Vanlandingham

I could not help it,
but to show you how the moment felt,
and in the unfolding of a picture, painted;
the deepest of your dreams were unknowingly shown to you
And it caught you off guard-  having, to that day..

   you never imagined,  it possible.

But you did not yet understand that you wear your dream
somewhere within the thin-walled interminglings
of the word's first primal, urgings..  and its out-into-the-light-of-day,
manifestations... (and baby, I feel like crying right now)
but I will continue
I will continue--

You never signed up for this,  I know..
but you are the one who  chose
to allow your war-torn heart,
to keep on beating//
your flame-scorched lungs,  to keep on breathing..
and now look at this mess, my beautiful--
your beautiful-everything has bled out on to me

and  everywhere that I am..  I am wearing you

And all I do  is tell you what it feels like  to wear you
but in doing so, I made known  your dream
and somehow-- within the stretch of Love's ache's, bad luck
I have become hated  for making your secret, come true--

         the revealing of the dream,  made known ::

                                                the Unfolded you.

And now, you are raging
because you never imagined, the possibility
that there would be someone  out there
that would care  enough about you
to become able  to see..

(and a man became hated, for just being  me).


Yet, even now  to this day,  beloved;
I close my eyes, and smile
within the depths,

  of your deeply loving, hatred.

I see you staring off into space,  your trajectory
aimed towards a specifically-patterned constellation.
I am only the launch tower--
providing stability, support
aiding in your refueling  and the replenishment of your supplies.
Star-patterned destinations are your calling
and, I am just the launch pad,  
and its ever accommodating tower.

They say that a rocket expends fifty
percent of its energy just clearing the tower;
It is the final destination:  
not the clearing of the tower,
that your heart needs most
and holding you firm,  I know that as you lift off
I will  even now  be tempted to
reach out with one of my ever-sustaining arms..
that I may touch your gorgeous tail section  
as you fly clear of me

But even in the doing of that,  
I would change your trajectory
and the constellations would never come to know you
nor you, them

I am just a tower, love..
a platform,  constructed solely  
to aid you in your newfound flight into freedom:
a tower  to love you
and hold you steady,  
with a finely-built strength

until you are finally clear
even,  of me.

--it is,  how very
tremendously cute you are,
and how your little stinkerlings
climb all over me;  their
trusting little Spirits drinking in all things, Daddy

And within you, dwells  all of the
fullness of their childlike hope, ******
And within them dwells hope's fire--
aflame within each little set of eye's
sparkle

Yet, beautiful Mommy--

There is a brutality, embedded deeply into
God's Love
that all but compels me to call you out
on almost seemingly-random things:
things that push up (almost fiercely)
against all things within you, stubborn
but they benefit..

                       they benefit.

And you fight against me-- even to your own detriment,
and I am reminded  then of the same fight shown--  emanating
from a young,  forming child's spirit:


           "No"   is the first word that should
                                          form freely
            within the mouth of a young spirit,
                                    aching deeply...

           within the depths  of the loved self
           for the true meaning of the word,  

                                           Autonomy.

An­d there is no loss  of love
in their little movements  towards separateness

And there is no price to pay for speaking the truth in love
nor, is there a payment owed, for speaking it  in defiance
and separateness, even to the point of  eventual separation
need never have to come at the cost of love--

the truly-loved, freely formed, self
is a beautiful, magical thing to behold, indeed.


And your participation in to it all, little-one's sweet Mommy

is a celebration in itself.

D Vanlandingham

My hands..
gently around her throat
as she momentarily
slips away, from the pain--
her beautiful doe-eyes, a full
submittal of trust..
(and I am worthy of it all..
so very very worthy, my beautiful)
and deep within  her release

she takes love in
she takes it in

There is a rope in the garage
that has her name on it
the bannister at the top of the stairs
(so very, very unworthy)
to provide support
for her beautiful body
that  now, only wants
to no longer  have to carry the pain
The rope does not  carry within it
the warm-blooded pulsings
of my own, heart's love--

  (it does not feel your trust,
   at the moment  of release..)

but    like me,
it has no concept of how to let go..
my hands--  they release
at the moment  of your own..
the tears in your eyes, say it all to me--
that you don't want me to  ever
learn how to let go.
The rope,  being pain's release
in to the final

Mine, a never-letting-go
into  the  forever

my hands  they ease their grip
but my heart--
      no..

      no   not,  ever.

How do I stop looking..
when do I let go?
Your need is my view
(my access to you)
and if and when   you
no longer need me..
well,
then I'll smile  a smile;
but until then,  I
would even
pull you to me as
my own, forever-
   if that is what you need.
And for that,
part of me wants to
                apologize..
but the better side of me
wants to say,

    you’re welcome.

Maybe all those things
you already understand  
from me
but one thing I know for sure--

if you keep moving towards the good
you are going to be
view-******* for life,

     in the best of ways.


     Oh--

     and you’re welcome.

..And his head went through
the windshield,
his grey-matter splatter,  a
             sacrificial-musing:

Leading  to the wonderful
presentation
        of the ideal,
giving  all  the  world  

permission, 
to now, fully feel

providing the access for all
to now   fully heal
through all things  {real}..

borne,  from the ideal.