the feminine bleeds
not always red, not always white
seldom enough
for words - she inters herself, crouched
chambered, begs for
cleansing, hand held cupped

round- her curves
familiar to self, unknowable;
unselfish giving - she bleeds, not enough
mutilated even by her own kindness, cradled
without righteousness, coddled by an unnamed
nebula .....she curses her own image, and likeness
slivers it, cuts it raw, for dead left - visible
a world denies
knowledge with sacred
alibi - scribed hieroglyphs, scrolled - she bleeds
white, and a

desert conceals her face
calculates her dance - her movements
mythical, she cries inside
out

tears of salt river-ed, rested
underground, a birthing place securing
her masculine seed coming to
light -  Madonna paints her
face black, "Oh Czestochowa, pray for us
Oh Mother - we beseech thee"....

She bleeds - red,  the
world turns with season - she re-seeds our flesh
feeds us with her *****, prior
to the sacrifice -"Witch, it is, Witch....burn it," conceal
in alabaster stones
lone, unmarked - her womb

tomb it only in site
of an unflinching god - hold him, birth him
in sorrow grieve and give him,  his blood shed
"take it ,drink it" - red,  she bleeds - seldom enough
as the masculine prepares for HIS resurrection
feminine for trial

He is reborn - she never dies
she is Wisdom (Sophia) eternal
He - Godhead
she - Feminine
denied....

vegetation bleeds upward
toward heat-crying mothers
nascent textures that unfold.

underneath waterspout
sighing deathmasks contort
hoarse features pass to praise.

vast cradle inters wee motes
fleck of much that floats
stretches brazen in dawns full of dust.

all passes in my lack of sight
heat kills clarity at first
by swallowing air and greens and giving birth.

As I take a look at the book on the dusted end table.  The pages hugging like too many people in a subway going too many places all with the same stop. The cover being the perfect misrepresentation of its contents. Comfortablely controlling the chaos that lays upon its tree filled inters. Words have been violently thrashed on to each page. Filled with names, verbs, destinations all of which were unexpected and uninvited.

I cradle this book into my dry palms. Run my imperfect fingertip across the spine with a chill. Pry back the very protective cover created to keep strangers from entering it's home. My eyes cast over the detailed words implanted on the inner walls. Absorbing each and every miniscule idea from the stationary knowledge upon each page.

Days pass as the final page has arrived. The book is placed back on the end table. Lonely and longing. We are far too similar me and this book. We both share a cover used to show too many people too little about the brilliance we hold. Too many people have passed us up without giving a second thought. There have been words typed into my brain stem without me asking for them to be put there. Every single person that explores us will find different knowledge

“train tracks claim Christian.”
starting with statement from
a dozen past lives’ back,
ruminating on his comment:
    “you speak as if your
      life is already over.”
and yes, my words conveyed
ring contempt of future seen
through these old-soul eyes.
seen – vision inters experience –
with a soul blooded by existential
understanding. and staring at
fixed point of cell’s wall,
questioning myself aloud:
    “what happened to
      this monastic wanderer?”
simply responded in thought,
response of breathless word:
     that is not your purpose
     in this rebirthing. and,
    “IT WILL NOT BE NEAT. POP”
that once barefooted vagrancy
in time of an innocent ideal-
ism, carried through years,
brought honest acceptance
that self-destruction is all we
can ever be certain of. and
if any rule governs the lives i run
footloose through, that is most
hopeful of all, for reconstruction
can and always follows in short
step. coming from vagrant bare feet to
hoping sight not being blinded like
the many listless eaters. and i sit
out, waiting for tracks to build
themselves in directions that in
end only led away from a pure
dawn’s rising sun. awaiting the
meticulous ponding where the
universe might provide haven for
this lotus eater. and once again,
in time of innocent idealism – again,
having learned falsifies – i choose
self-destruction so that i might
come to a reconstruction whose
foundation is not sole reverie.

Resident people
Resonantly
Gasping, your mechanisms weary
Of wondering, of the want
For an end, for the gears to stop
And make sense
For primary colors on a soul’s fingertips
For God to be some river that never ends
For your Self to either matter
Or to never begin