Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,

but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.

Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.

Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.

Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
  
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper

of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.

Always there more to God than pain.

Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,  
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.

It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******?
Just *******: could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere *******! Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...

We bleed red rainbows,
for disbelief in the system of destroying ourselves
Delving out raw humor,
emotions into the void of unavoidance.
I was lost in a trance,
watching the fractals explode of the mirror,
of the reality we fight,
for no reason but to make sense of
the pentagram ***** staining my jacket|
with a memory.
I try to sweep that bittersweet memory,
off the foot of my bed,
to shed my cocoon of self loathing,
to become a mechanical butterflying by
the space time continuum,
of unconscious breath,
fogging the mirror,
watching yourself,
a fly on the wall whispered a secret,
rusting wings need
oil on the rig
before the dab hits the nail,
inhale,
that memory before you hit the ground

She parked her bike
by the stone bridge
and stared down at the river
waiting for Naaman

he said to meet her there(
he finished
his half day of work
just before)

and go for a ride
and see a few things
she'd not seen him
since the Sunday before

a short walk through the woods
by the farmhouse
out of sight
of her parent's gaze

hand in hand
flesh on flesh
she watched
as the river flowed onwards

the ever flowing water
then Milka heard him call
as he rode near the bridge
waving a hand

she looked at him riding
with his Elvis style hair
and jeans and open neck shirt
he dismounted his bike

next to hers
and walked to her
she stood expectantly
nerves tingling

her whole insides
butterflying
he kissed her cheek
she held his hands

kissed again
got here as fast as I could
Naaman said
your brothers have gone

into town
so won't be this way
in a while
she smiled

I wondered
if they'd be with you
she said
you look pretty

he said shyly
do I?
she said
course you do

he said
nice of you to say
where are we going?
she asked

bike ride
he said
where to?
a place I used to live

he said
is it far?
Milka asked
not that far

we can go through
the back lanes mostly
he said
ok

she said
so they got on their bikes
and rode off up the hill
he in front she behind

along country lanes
up hills down hills
through narrower lanes
along a main road

keeping to the side
of the grass verge
and 20 minutes later
they were there

and he rode into a narrow path
and got off his bike
by some trees
and she followed

and did likewise
she bent over
getting her breath back
he leaned against a tree

some ride
he said
longer than I thought
she blew out breath

and inhaled
leaning by Naaman
you lived here?
yes up the road a bit

second cottage in
she looked around her
quiet here
yes is it

he said
come I'll show where it is
and he took her hand
and walked her

through the woods
and narrow path
she sensed his hand
in hers

ran her thumb
on the back
of his hand
there

he said
through that gate
they stood looking at a gate
at the back of a cottage

who lives there now?
she asked
don't know
he said sadly

I'll show you the pond
where I used to fish
and where I'd sit
and think things through

so she walked with him
through a wooded path
the area darker
because of denseness of trees

then they came to a fence
and they climbed over
and through a field
and then he showed her

the large pond
where he used to fish
they walked to the edge
and stood looking

at the water's skin
her hand still in his
sunlight filtering
through the trees above

they sat down on the grass
did you catch any fish here?
she asked
no but I tried

he said
she kissed him
he smelt apples
fresh picked

her flush of skin
her eyes bright
her short cropped hair
she leaned against him

he sensed her nearness
her beat of heart
her small **** pressing
against the yellow top

least I won't hear
my mother call from here
she said
or my brothers teasing

guess not
he said  
they worry about you
you're only 14

she looked away
you're only 16
she countered
besides I'm with you

they trust you
she added
do they?
he said

course they do
she said
turning her head
taking in

his hazel eyed stare
do they know
you're with me today?
she shook her head

they didn't ask
and I didn't say
she said
Yaakov knows

Naaman said
I told him
you did?
she said

what did he say?
said he felt sorry for me
but that I'd soon recover
she looked at him

what a cheek
she said
is that all he said?
yes then he talked

of the new Elvis film
at the flicks
and was I going
is that all?

he nodded
he'll tell my mother
she said
don't think so

he replied
he said he'll leave that
for you to do
and she lay her head

against his shoulder
and he kissed her head
and they sat there
in the quietness

kissing now
and again
then ran for cover
from a downpour of rain.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The voices are ringing in my ears, a thundering conundrum I have yet to figure out. He's screaming, no he's whispering, oh I can't tell anymore, from a thunder to a shiver its all the same to me I'm deaf I'm blind I see with echolocation I am a bat in its cave begging to see the light though I know it burns.

Each sentence blurs to the next a word a whisper oh there I go with whispers again did I forget a comma, some punctuation? Sorry my mind is a mile a minute when it feels such frustration in its bones that it cannot feel its toes anymore.

Wait, my brain doesn't have toes.

Nonsense. I am practically a wonderland character with all my nonsensical drivels about love and mania and speed and tears and lust and death. Give me a hat and I'm practically batty, my good sir. I will make a march with my hair and wish you a very merry un-death-day, or however that goes.

Falling down my rabbit hole, no my cave, I'm a bat, remember? I have found a way to fall sideways right into your heavy arms and you stare at me aghast, for I am not who you once thought I to be. There is a face for each hue, each color of my pigments, I'm a leaf, each season brings out a different color, well unless your coniferous but that is besides the point and very much more about needles, but I digress.

Wait, I'm a bat. What is this nonsense about leaves?

Sit down at my table and I will explain it all to you dear, how my brain is wired like a ticking time bomb, ready to set off at any moment, particularly if my pretty little pills aren't butterflying in my bloodstream, those little friends of mine simply forgetting a swim day.

Funny how one day without them can be average or it can be, well, this. Quite mad, isn't it? Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck twelve and the bat swept down and the mouse is left to rot. Tick tock, tick tock.  

Give me a cat or two and then there's a name for me, but I bet your bottom dollar every single one is a chesire, grinning, tormenting, taunting, killing. They reflect the little demons in my heart.

Have you ever been so afraid of your own reflection, or the butter knife at the end of your table, and how it might just slip into your fingers at ever the wrong moment and you might regret your next action for the rest of your life? I've only once or twice, but it was a once too many, and now I'm terrified of that little butter knife resting on the end of my table, taunting my demons, knowing how much I fear them.

Should I be a true ****** and enter a hospital? No, I will never learn honesty, all these thoughts kept up in my pretty little head will never leave my pretty little head, they enjoy their tenancy too much. Just pop the pills, Grace, darling, and everything will be ok.

A few more hours, and then I can be reunited with my dear little friends, and like the good little bat I am, recoil back into my cave, and let the butterfly angler I wiggle out be the beautiful front everyone sees. No mad hatter, no march hare, no alice, not even a bat. A pretty butterfly that everyone loves.

If only they knew what this butterfly had behind her; a cave full of wonderland.

And everyone should be afraid of that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Current events on current invents

Looking ahead skipping stones at the rear view glass

No connectivity you're better off with brass

Benefits kicked in so here's to owning new lenses

For much clearer visuals

Mapped a shortcut between the human genome pool

No ones perfect everybody is a beautiful

The vowels of silence in a bright room

Summoning the subtraction i lost back gambling

Butterflying through the Ocean of probability

Arm distance please my thoughts are a disturbance

More than one thousand feelings of meaninglessness ...

Minutiae of life, betwixt

Sacred and profane in the mundane,

If lustless, miraculous disdained,

Evolves at it's own clip

Giving the unseeing eye the slip,

A crysalis of sorts,

Caterpillaring into

Butterflying love.

Ideas went butterflying
Into the sky
Whooping and singing
A complete understandment
Soon to fall to the
Ground
With a dissolving flutter
And slouched away
And swayed into
Endless night
Leaving nothing
But shards of
Emptiness