Diminutive in frame and stature
defines him not, but instead enhances the
brilliance of his smile’s shine.
The golden flakes of honesty in his warm brown eyes
covey one vice that is captivation.
They hold hostage your most destructive thoughts
to instantaneously
replace them with the best; of
joy, contentment, and love-the best of him.

His high cheek bones define a mouth
so perfectly constructed.
They rise and fall like oceans’ waves with
every gentle gesture.

He thinks of love as a pool of chances
and illogically
he dives into the hurt he’s found himself in once
twice, no wait, three times.
But still, he never falters to give “chance”
just one more chance to prove he’s done what’s right.

Secondary comes his needs, in light of someone else’s.
The thoughts, “too tired” or “too busy” does nothing for him because
if someone needs help, you help them undoubtedly.
I  have seen the coat that once
cascaded on his back give warmth to one
who had no coat
or smile
or joy
or light.

And for that one he lowered his head
to ask God for a favor.
I met this guy, this “perfect” guy when innocence consumed me
and since that day we’ve been each other’s confidant and comforter.
My love towards him supersedes that of a friend or
the best of that.

The truest thing I know is that when everyone one else
disappears to the mundane norms of life,
he will be there with me to cut through
the silence with rolls of laughter.
At what? It does not matter.
Because when I’m with him and he’s with me
there is a “we” that is formed and that “we” is captivates me

An infinite truth is that I will never stop
loving this young man.
He keeps my heartbeat steady so I
must exclaim the best of
joy, contentment, and love-the best of him.

A calm and cool breeze
Passes through the leaves of the trees,
Persuading the branches to sway,
Like algae in a turbulent sea.
Without a cloud in the pale blue Arizona sky,
The sun radiates down-- hot and glaring.
It reflects off the shiny paint of the cars around me,
Illuminates the brown mountains in the distance.
And magnified through the thick lenses of my glasses,
It blinds my sensitive eyes.
The surrounding sempiternal desert
Is so clear and sharp,
That no one nor nothing can hide
(With the exception of the beings who can blend,
And despite my tiring efforts,
I am not one of them.)
The nearest Creosote bush
Eminates of the smell of water,
As it passes through a hose.
I am instantly transported back home
Where sand is replaced by grass and plants
That require regular watering to survive.
When I close my eyes I can see
The illusion of a waterfall, created by the uncoiling hose
As it ejects tepid water for us to traverse.
But upon unveiling my windows,
I allow the sandy landscape to penetrate into my soul
And I am brought back to the present
Where life subsists, illogically,
Through a dearth of water, and inordinate sun.

Sooooo maybe I got
Unreasonably angry.
Maybe I got illogically riled.
And maybe I let my childish emotions
Get the better of me
And I ran with them, rampant and free.

How does one find
The balance in life
Of feeling but not feeling too much?
Of not pendulum swinging
From uncontrollable loathing
To indescribable bliss
Or inexorably blithe?

To feel but only to feel enough!
To be but only to be just right!
Never too little and yet not too much!
Finding the balance is every man's plight.

I am sorry for your pain
but I am not the cause
and seeing how you've treated me
I think I know what was

Dishonest in your ranting
as you're girlfriend and not wife
no wonder why he shies away
from unrelenting strife

Accusing without evidence
eschewing private mail
you castigate me publicly
as illogically you rail

Behaving with much cruelty
demonstrating zero class
you couldn't solve a mystery
if it bit you in the ***.

18 Jun 2015

doing the heavy lifting

picking up my emaciated heart,
letting the rest of my wilting body
tag along qualifies, but is not the
heavy lifting referenced above.

we all have a meeting, the bits and
pieces, the bobs and keepsakes
that constitute my mien, a constitutional
convention of 13 colonies that raucous
write of burdens, of freedoms, with wild
inspirations and cold political calculations

this combining document hoping to topstitch
my reeling mind and deteriorating physic,
to write words of hopeful praise but rising
to a world that is baking in hatred into fabric
and tissue, and that is the heaviest lift of all

Sunday morning, coffe-d, somewhat rested,
a full day planned, and a Mike Message says
it’s me that does the heavy lifting and I know!
he knows! the displaced state of my mind, and
the hardened ache of writing with fresh hope,
when there is so little, that it is lost in the litter
of endlessness of a world gone, not going,
mad~insane and murderers are
illogically celebrated,
and yet here I am punching words on my
AM Morning Punch List of worthy words
available that aid us needy for repair & yet
might move us together to a state of full repair;  
but I am punchy from trying, to find words
themselves that require do not require, a
truth washing,
a new word recleansing
and

    (they put the load right on me),

and naïf-not, see the troubles ahead and get
me more paper to add to the list of lists of
worldly worrisome words that are heavy
lifting of the world as it is but know I weep as
I write this for not in my possess the light airy
words, the wordsmith is crushed neath the weight of

tonnage of human word-lessened-ness

Sunday Morning
Oct 22 2023
9:02am,
writ in a singed single cry

He was robotic
Devoid of human emotion
Illogically logical to a fault was his cover
He never really said where he was coming from
The blanket of positivity he engulfed himself in,
was truly a layer of *******.

He could be so sweet when hugging and kissing
Giving so much pleasure with his mouth when it was quiet but busy
His words were daggers in my heart and my mind
Fingers trained to please at certain, very specific times.

Body turned to ice.
Impenetrable walls.
Hiding in his cave.
Hiding in his logic.
Hiding in his work.
Hiding - in how things needed to be, for him.

Communication, smashing my head
against the brick wall of his empty chest.

A Goddess - sitting right in front of him
All her love to give.
He had none for himself, hence, none for her.

He made her think she was crazy.
Unconstant boundaries of steel.

You wasted my time.
I was falling for you, again.
Hardest rejection.
Text, false words, internet.

You're not a real person,
You're a robot with a small *****.

So damaged, beyond repair.
No compassion, no understanding.

Hot, Cold, Frozen.
Barred gates.

"You're an *******".
So far away.

Goodbye for the second time.

Never resolved.
I still want to understand.

my mind is so logical
when its thinking illogically
that it is just soooo logical
that the illogical
thoughts become logical
therefor even the craziest
of thoughts are sane
even in this insane
mind because it just makes sense
it is so logical.

I'm asking questions like im socrates
and of course the answers aren't a shock to me
I'm asking for solidity
but not a single thing in this life has rigidity
It all don't mean nil to me, it's foolish to be
caught up in this world you'll see
the world is dying, all will pass away, we have not forever, we may not have a day
we are just a wisp, a vapor, the fading sound of a once struck chord
even i am only shattered metaphors
pieces of paper fluttering and torn
i hear their inky voices as they mutter and they mourn
there is near to nothing left of me anymore
i am only broken bits of poetry
smashed and spit on paper
I am only sickly similes, a sadly spoken satire
like wandering ghosts of memories and meaningless dreams
like meaningless hopes and desperate screams it seems
like things have taken a turn for the worse
and i may soon end up
in a homemade handwritten paper hearse
strangled by my verses
flayed alive by words then
left to wander wordless
my meaningless words have begun to haunt me, daunt me, it's daunting
and this is not me
I am not some needy scrap of paper waiting to be filled
I am a notebook half-filled with half-finished lines of half-realities
I am a dying man screaming at the top of my lungs as they are shattering
as i am torn apart by the desires of my own heart
It falls apart as i metaphysically massacre me
I blatantly
snip apart the seams of sanity and reality-what little few are left in me
i **** with words that flow from my pen
and then
I write for them revival
but my pen is low on ink and i think it's suicidal
It'll be a kamikaze even if i choose denial
and i don't know much but i know it's a vicious cycle
I dont know when it will choose to think
it's own end into existence
will it be, maybe
perfectly timed to persuade me,maybe
illogically, with all reason simply lost to me
that it chose to spit a little extra blood
a little extra ink
that it chose to save me from the next line i might make
just think, it might be more than i could take
it might break me, make me, mistakenly
the master of my own fate
This is death by poetry
rebirth by verse
If i write poetry again, will it be reversed?
not a revolution or evolution but
humanity
in words
this
is death by poetry

After, a long drawn out burning kiss
that opened a never healing wound
she leaves for the secret rendezvous
in a verdant oasis in a distant desert.
He didn't hear about her even after
light years, remembrance of that
kept on haunting him, for reasons
he wanted to find, he burned and burned.

On a full moon night after million years,
searching in the desert, long hours
sweating and tired like a haunted animal
he found a magnificent Spinx,felt connected
fell for that feminine allure, curved hips
hypnotic eyes of a hermaphrodite,swell of *******,
that illogically prompted him to caress,

towering high at the end of an oasis,
wasn't it  a construct of desire?

he stood, feverishly desiring those pouting lips,
the moment next, missed the one inflicted wound,
in a pit inside  forbidden longings erupt
when speaking  language of desire, poisoned fruits too
taste dark poetry, nature flows to  symmetry
"No man or woman, loved me like that"
a whisper, then a hiss, in passion proclaims
there she was his one time lover, cheat, deserter
of his spirit's mating call, still he isn't free from delusions,
she abandoned him for another, in that too wasn't sure
yet another of her misadventure, does she repent?

"I didn't want to miss you like this" she says
"you mistook that I was in love with her, him or whatever"
entanglements, there were from the word go,
her eyes , he observed were sapphires,
her bleached white bones, were irresistible, totems
he wanted to preserve it in the museum in Cairo
her being grew in to him like an oasis
in a desert, a weary, insane, traveler reaches
just in time for the final peaceful hour before all resolve.

"Are you insane, what makes you do this again" a voice asked,
another million years would pass without any solace,
the sphinx, so magnificent then would be just a sand dune !
They hand in hand, would be walking over it,
that sweet oblivion would remain, birth after birth.

i read your poems, but i can't read you.
what's the point?

other boys, they call me pretty-
well,
sometimes they do.
but still,
other boys, they touch my hand,
they like my hair,
they think i'm funny.
but they're not you,
and that rips me up.

the boy who once said i'm not his type
doesn't think
you are good
for me.
but
he doesn't know you.
he doesn't know
your pretty
folded
inside out
folded
right side out,
folded
into the pit
of my stomach, giving me butterflies.
oh, my god, i think this is what love feels like
when you’re stuck on the rewind
of a cassette tape,
because the player
doesn’t auto-stop,
and you don't feel like getting up,
so the tape snaps or tangles or knots.
either way it can’t be the same ******* song,
it sounds too different to be.
warbled.

but the beat is the same.
it starts off slow then speeds up
as the eyes get bluer
and her cheeks get warmer.
tha. thump. tha. thump.
tha thump. tha thump.
thathumpthathumpthathump.

if you love me, baby, just say so.
because i’m so brand new,
i’m so full of darkness.
you’re so ruggedly smooth,
so full of lightning.
i’m so brand new,
that i can’t read you like your poems.
i’m so full of darkness,
that i can’t feel loved anymore.
but, baby, baby, bubby.
i could love you like a poem.

i’ll be the body electric.
(i love as hard as a whitman)
i’ll be the master, the dream, the fool.
(i love as illogically as a kipling)
i’ll be immortal.
(i’ll love as sweetly as a dickinson)
i’ll be everything
you’ve ever read about and wanted,
if you’d just come clean.

so if you love me
if you love me
come clean.

No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch

on the prompt "Falling in Love (more than once)"

I thought about
this prompt you gave me.
A ******* a train,
I had fallen in love with,
Silhouette of her hair
border lining the darkness of eventide
towards Bangalore.

We met in a ground a year later,
no intermittent contact held,
like quantum-entangled electrons do,
dumbfounded how it'd happened.
And again on the road in Bangalore
three years later.

A direct line to the eye's sight,
first time, under a morning seeming streetlight.
A latch bolded in the color of the eyes,
I longed to deep dive in.

Words finding silence at the wrong time,
so they resorted to not all things
and happenings having reasons
and fear of consoling a needy
in a fear of an upside down going failure.

And like between life and death are only breaths,
the silence between the sentences
was filled with ours
and death by chocolate,
and thoughts of silences
of the other's mind, unheard of,
aware only of an unbeknownst wind
of familiarity of an unknown kind.

I had fallen in love multiple times,
which is to say I'd sifted through
the earth to the other side
and started rising, from it, in it.

Following down the gushes of time
sinking and rising sensations
of guilty pleasures in the chest, insinuating
that the thing of beauty is a joy forever
but only when not possessed.

                           ***

There's an old man, my mother's father
not loved by anyone, angry all the time
illogically unnecessarily hurting others,
drunk trashing long hair and glasses,
rusted in the smell of decay.

I make me fall in love with him,
again and again and again,
so that he knows he's not alone,
always.

I have said “I forgive you” 490 times.
You asked me if I knew I was a dumb ****. One.
You told me it was my fault he left. Seven.
The numbers are lost on me after that
But they follow, illogically, a logical progression
Like the patterns formed by the spaces in-between
Words, trickling down past what is happening.
The plot is unknown, at times even random,
but the spaces are most certainly predetermined.
At 490, the count resets to zero.

within my own inflexibility My rigidity deteriorates me
circumstances are changing
these are potentials I’m afraid to correct
I become carried away when I identify with stimuli
I’m boundless I know no restraints

I’m extreme in reaction though I regret my severity
I’m alert to the patterns instincts fail for the need of harmony
I align, my emotions with awareness
an enchanted form of perfected grace
loyalty to doubt lack of power to concentrate
focus perceived illogically
spontaneously conceptualizing
determination leads to recognition in a position of influence
but only when recognized for being in the right place at the right time
the bitterness in rejection when overstimulating the mind


Even amongst the greatest of decadences
spirit warrior has no polarity
in nature of truth blessed this innocence maintained regardless
analysis of personal actions and effects
in an extreme state of self consciousness
self deluted irrational focus on what’s already passed
this inspiration that a rational concept can be established

lack to continue intelligence to endure
persistent re-evaluation
indecision in times of transformation
a deep and profound need to self express
materialism disrupts creativity at best
attracting loyalty as a gift
leadership sanctioned in times of crisis
a natural position of practicality avoiding conflict to keep security
alert to patterns of inferior elements
creates cooperation and results in management
the most successful action is powerful and extreme reaction
a boundless energy which ignores awareness
no restraint puts spirit at risk
balancing principals with energy leads to expansion
and properity
securing identity through careful consideration
opposing restrictions with determination
ignorance of innocence betrayed by action
when finding yourself in a negative position
the success of restraint lies not in abandonment
but caution expressed as a social experiment
instincts may fail for the need of Harmony
yes establish conditions for collective mastery
self deluted transformation reassed inspiration
to omit retrogression would be the sin of omission
to justify these time would be to mislead the mind

There’s a difference between what something is and what we think it is. Rather, there’s a difference between the idea that anything is and the awareness that everything is illusory. It sounds abstract and impractical, but it’s a truth that runs steady through the things that seem to matter most to us: we don’t get over someone just because they’re gone, we get over them when we get over the illusion that we still have to grieve. We don’t wake up one day and start loving ourselves, we start realizing that the reasons we didn’t were false beliefs illogically held. We compare ourselves to others to craft these ideas, we narrate our lives through the minds of others because the illusion of their perception, when we create it in our minds, is one we can control. Imaginary things are easier to see because they don’t need to be in front of us for us to believe in them. They always exist. They’re always there to comfort us and let us live the lives we imagine we want. But that’s the problem: when the illusion isn’t the truth, the two collide eventually. The illusion just limits us. Until the letting go leaves us in the illusion of nothingness. And so we create another one.

The intangible things that are present in our lives are the things we don’t think we can go on without. The illusions we have to live with so we can go on with living.

We eventually realize that all things are myriads of expressions of distorted ideas, and that all things are the simple alignment of the illusions we perceive and how the world reflects them back to us. That happiness always came from getting the things we thought the illusion would like, and that unhappiness was realizing that receiving them filled the void and then we crafted another illusion to replace it. All unlasting, false things are products of this, and the only way to transcend them is to simply be aware. The greatest secret of life is realizing that these things aren’t part of us. They aren’t natural. As easily as we created our illusions we can get rid of them, we just have to be aware that they are just that. Ideas.

If you don’t, you end up living in the illusion that others have created for you. And you’ll call it “reality.”

Yes,
this is another poem
about ****.

Sorry,
I know you’re
exhausted from
hearing them.

Sorry,
I know it makes you uncomfortable.

****.
There I
go apologizing again.

Ok. Reframe.
Start over. Own it.

This is a poem
about **** and you better
******* listen.

Ok too harsh,
too harsh.
They’re not gonna listen now.

Again.

Ok, uhh...
personal story.
One time my
best friend and I
were ***** by the same
person.

Ok wait, no...
too personal.
They’ll just pity me,
instead of seeing the
larger issue.

Ok, I think I finally got it.

To give you an idea
of the numbers,
all of my friends and I
have been victims
of  ****** assault.

Great, perfect,
not too personal,
we can talk about it in the abstract
like nothing terrible
happened to me,
specifically.

That’s it. That’s it.
That’s how we can talk about.
Depersonalized,
Submerging our feelings
with facts.
Statistics are our best friend.

So here it goes:
Did you know false reports of ****** assault are
rare, ranging from 2 to 10%
of all reported ****** assaults.
That the percentage
I just quoted was
from a study that
collected data over 10 years
from reports on a college campus,
after determining in a meta-analysis of 20
other studies on false reporting that the
FBI data used was "unreliable."

Conversely, about 63% of
****** assaults go unreported.

Wouldn't it make sense
to air on the side of
believing women
then? As opposed to
casually
insinuating they could
have ulterior motives
reporting ****** assault,
political or otherwise.

That isn't an argument.
That is fear talking.
That is guilt talking.
That isn’t us having a conversation –
that’s just you blabbering illogically,
crippled by the fear you’ll be next.

You are wrong.
You are wrong!
Your arguments are baseless.
You are completely ignoring the facts.
There is no evidence.
You need to stop talking,
and politely listen.
Because you have a lot to learn.
And while we are not obligated,
many of us are willing to teach you:

The only ulterior motive women
have 'outing' people,
for a CRIME
they committed,
the only benefit,
is to make sure the person responsible
doesn't **** someone else.
And you not believing us,
you chastising us,
you rolling your eyes,
you silencing us,
lets that person walk free.

pressure of descent
the nihilist stoic
madness prevails

so exercise is the logical conclusion.
illogically, my matted lack-of-a-
shower and my swollen lymph
node to the point of painful
swallows speak nothing in
the way of 'yes' or 'no.'
At this point,
I'm just lonely and jealous of the worlds
'okay,' and can't be bothered with little
touchies like- oh, perhaps she meant it?
we meant it, by any measure. concussive
doubts rain on my soul like laughter,
intention; lymph node aches as I chew.
time to call a doctor. time to call a dr.

Moments ago it was cool breezy fall day
when the sky filled with birds escaping.
How did they know in advance?

As I scratch this itch that won’t go away,
patches of hairy skin peel off to fall
between my fingers and plummet to the ground.
I imagine this should be more painful.

Digging fingernails in deep to the bone.
Illogically overwhelmed by this itch
which remains my hard focus.

My bone now exposed to the environment.
In shock I touch my head to feel
strong warm confident skull.

Single tear of blood from my head.
Single tear of blood from my eye.
Why isn't there more?
I must be melting from the top down.

Made it to the edge of the thermal radiation zone
by the time the tires of my car started slowly
melting into the bubbling pavement.

I crouch low like that will help as if somehow
it’s possible to get underneath the toxic layer.
This fluctuating world is heat warped.
Hopefully my eyeballs don’t evaporate.

The sun hides behind acidic thundering clouds of earth above.
Now almost as dark as night with a full moon.
A dull mangled orange has ripped out all of life’s shadows.

My dogs eyes wickedly glow through the haze
as he stares out at what I assume to be

a better
day.

lines If
             I ( could once write
                brilliance seen read lived Yes
                                     complete a sentence
      in a straight line
                            thought
obliterate waking knowledge let go of
inhibitionsandliveprecariously
        followwwwwwww
the rules

if alll cammmmetrue

illogically as it seems
                         peace
would rain daily on doves wings and Jack would run up the hill with Jill
again.

It's apparently an oddity
A strange thought to be
Capable of flight - of mental invincibility
Life awarded to those 'fortunate' enough to win the lottery.

Put down the mental shotty
Imagining brains displayed sloppily
Doing things naughtily
Sickening debauchery.

With your eyes, can you see?
Or still blinded by your hate-filled ideology?
Imaginary substances manifesting at your fingertips, illogically?
Swinging, pulling, pushing, prodding, don't you miss your family?

Pleading cries, misty eyes just push you into ecstasy
Dear God, just get away from me
Hard to believe we're of the same blood, house stench of rotten memories
Same blood you want to spill. Indefinitely.

I think mother is starting to burn, put her in the oven lovingly?
Water over flowing, brother drowning - turned the faucet peacefully?
Little Kacey's stomach not pumping, smothering with a sense of superiority?
You belong in a mental institute, just get the hell away from me!

You killed my brother, took my mother, murdered my sister happily
Killing me next will give you a feeling truly satisfactory!
Father isn't your name, you're a mother ******* demon, knowingly!
No, it's too late. Nothing can save me now, God has abandoned me surely.

You satisfied yet, you ******* sicko? For you, this is mandatory
We were once a happy family, father and son, but this is the end of the story.
A comedy, drama, horror. The story became a tragedy.
It just ***** that this couldn't end fantastically...

Irrational thoughts racing.
Illogically trying to explain something unexplainable.
I can use maths and science all I want but it will never explain why I love you.

I am at a slow standstill with realization huffing down my neck.
Do we ever have the opportunity to tell them how much we truly love them?
Countless wishes don’t tally up the way real actions do
ones we sit back and merely hope will arrive
so that we may go on for hours the way we yearn to.
But in honesty, that is just not real life.
But why can’t it be?
Why don’t we see people sacrificing a few minutes at work
for a few moments of kissing on busy streets
ignoring the daily routines scolding us from all four corners of our brains
to utter words more precious than time.

Hatred could come very last as your gasp claws for heaven
so I change my mind.
I am here
I am now
replicating the saccharine agony of love as candidly as I can.

I know you see it pouring from me
and I pour
and I pour
and I spill as thoroughly as I am brave.
I pour space and time continuum's
and still
for you
I cannot pour enough.

I believe strongly in infinite strings
that pull definite souls closer to each other
but I did not feel that tug the way I did
until I met you
when I thought two planets were colliding into one
a new solar system was being bent to match your eyes.

There was one single moment
that stood our sorely amongst all other magnificent ones.
I remember accidentally cutting my thumb
the wound small by size, not by pain.
I told you it hurt.
You kissed me.
I didn’t know the pain went away until you stopped and it returned.
That is exactly what
loving you is.

The only difference is that moment was temporary
while we are permanent
scars on blank canvases
ashes impersonating dust
what is engraved in my skin when it is you.

I have looked so widely and thought I had loved so deeply
still not far, not wide enough
as I was just scratching the tough surface,
this is more than butterflies
and better than death.

You cannot be summed up in pronouns
nothing short of wedding vows
for I who is so methodical
craves to live illogically with you.

When you are doing absolutely nothing
is when I adore you most
when you sit there
with nothing in the world but you
is when my heart cannot swell greater.
You, in your simplest human form
is etched into the core of my soul
where you have dug up far beneath my chest
things that even I have let reside in its own dust.
Your purest version
is when I love you primitively.

Although your grand endeavors are nothing to reckon with
and their end would shave my heart to its gruesome core
I love you, when you are hand to hand with me and you do not know it
when we dance in my driveway and somehow it is not cliché
despite the fire in your eyes and the glimmer in my throat
longing to entwine with yours.

When your voice cracks
your hair does strange things
those icy veins that layer the bones in your fingers
on the front of your hands
your golden eyelashes
when you are absolutely unaware
and the consuming happiness that moves me
when I lull you back with
“Baby? Are you awake?”

Darkness warmly embraces your face
like the milk of your naked skin
when I know you as a whole
muttering prayers down the spine of your back
dousing your worry lines with kisses I wrap in bauble
and the amount of times I’ve almost stopped making love to you
to write it all down
but could not will myself to so intensely
that I sacrificed letting such sacred things like good ideas go.

But I do not clutch to regret
when your skin is meant to be upon mine
your voice a legality when harmonized
with the type of laughter that only prevails
when you can no longer breathe
and you realize
you,
are in love.

And if I could freeze this moment in time
paste it to my walls with forever  
I would.
I would make an extra copy
just so I could organize it in my filing cabinet
label it: Love. The life in me. Him.

He, is the heart to my heart
the soul to my soul
replacing your birth name with Love
the name my universe knows you a whole lot better as.

I have come to my conclusion,
as your lips clasp the tremors of my heart
one more time.

No poetry
no words
no existence
has the capacity to compare the love that you are to me
the love of mine that you hold.

At my least is this,
so that my undying love will not halt
after this poem signs its period:

You—
are I.
Speechless
impossible.
Piecing together
overwhelmingly
all that is love.

After spending all winter
In shoes and boots
My feet were put to their
Summer test
With a five mile trek
    see yellow butterflies!
    see the wild columbines!
In flip flops
And the blisters
And the pain
In an illogically brilliant manner
Make me deeply
    and happily
        satisfied

Cold , illusory afternoon on a smokey Locust Grove reservoir , a period piece from 1980 , the clap of the johnboat and paddle driven wakes
Bluer , straight shots across open waterways , blond hashish
serenades , remembering the fog that broke illogically just as the Sun dropped away
She posed quite convincingly like good thespians do ,
and passed within a few short Autumn days

The branches reach illogically  
Searching for order in woodland -
chaos
They're trimmed in leaves of blue , high above -
red grass bordering a pink roadway , green
clouds speckle the mustard ceiling in the -
afternoon foray of time and reason
I am a living god born anew each second
Receiving my personal earth in tardy installments

Inattentive to blackened slopped lashes,
which run coal tributaries land-sliding
from her eyes to her chin, he walks
in direct aim for an exit. She squawks

her “You never loved me,” wailings
to whom she, never loved herself. As frenzy
slams between them, violent collision
of his realization, sparks his next decision

and he stops. One hand in empty pocket,
on empty wallet, he is spun illogically
and holds second palm against door.
Lacquered eye in peephole’s furor,

is  batting on other side. He softly makes
his sweet tortured apology, “Sorry.”
You see how for pitiful poor love,
is for pitiful poor, all there to speak of.

Waiting again
for that one thing
That something that
will make it worthwhile
Anything, tangible, material, ethereal
That will show me
there is no guile

That there is a reason a rhyme
to this pain and hurt
Logical or illogically existing
Knowing that I will
have to pay for the crime

You have gone far away
So silently breeze blows
And touches the horizon aimlessly.
You have gone far away from my hut
So, I don’t claim for anything anymore logically or illogically
Everything has stopped like a noiseless sea.
You have gone far away from my canvas
So, I impeded my drawings
Just perambulate in a corner of yard.
You have gone far away from my music
So, Bengals do not sing anymore.
You have gone far away from my garden
So, butterfly doesn’t fly with colourful wings
Flowers become dry and lymphatic.
Where at once was brimmed with ecstasy
Now it is a barren land.
You have gone far away
Who will hold my hand and bring me
In the yard of glory?
You have gone far away
I am crying all alone in the agony.