Where the pasture meets the woodland
and the current meets the past—
that is where I will meet you.
By the light of the day, I will greet
you and be near you.
When evening falls, and the field glows
burgundy, I will come nearer to you still.
And in the night-time, when the sky
is a well of inky black pinpricked with
diamonds, I will be so near that
we will be one altogether.
We will languish in the woods, forge
friendships with the trees.
When the trees tire of us, we will go
befriend the tall grass.
Such are the inhabitants of this place—
this place where the pasture meets the
woodland.
And you and I, my dear companion,
will slip into their ordinary,
while remaining wholly in our own
very extraordinary.

The Full Moon
Brings to mind
red eyed vampyres
witches covens
wolves howling

but to me it is
beautiful ,a soft cool wind
black pinpricked skies
the flickering red/whitelight
of a passing jet

the distant view of a
thunderstorm
nothing is nicer than to
view the world at night

She had dried His feet
with her hair. She’d not
forgotten that. Not long
after she’d seen the same

feet nailed and bloodied
to the wooden down beam.
Her tears had helped wash
them, those feet, she later

remembered the tingle she
had felt as her long hair
dried them, something in
touching, emptied her of

self and opened up her
darker self. Had He seen
more than others, understood
what others were blind to,

forgave what others condemned?
That moment, His feet in
her hands, touching her hair,
her hands. His eyes spoke to

her, His words pinpricked her,
each sin (as others saw them)
scabbed over as he went by,
His shadow kind of healed her.

She knew that now, not then
so much, after His demise (or
so seemed) and the placing in
that tomb, she felt letdown,

emptied, like after some dark
passage ***. But she’d seen
Him after, the feet healed,
the holes unbloodied, His

voice soothed her inner coil
keyed up tight. But mostly she
recalled the washing of His feet
on that warm moon filled night.

True blue and cleared sky
Where the pasture meets the woodland
And the current meets the past —
That is where I’ll meet you.

Evening falls,
And the field glows
Burgundy,
I’ll come near you.

The sky is a well of inky black
Pinpricked with diamonds,
Still, I’ll be so near.

We will languish in the woods,
Forge friendships with the trees.
When the trees got tire of us,
We will go
Befriend the tall grass.

Such are the inhabitants of this place—
This place
Where the pasture meets the woodland.
And you and I,
Oh dear companion,
Will slip into their ordinary,
While remaining wholly in our own
very extraordinary
And these hours
It counts for you!

(12/9/13 @xirlleelang)

I sink in
I rest my knobby elbows on the hard glass
            my dark, fuzzy, pinpricked reflection stares up at me
I place my cold palms on my hot eyes.
These eyes, they've seen too much
            yet, nearly not enough
My chapped lips,
            stingingly soothed by minty beeswax
My clothes
            plaid polo flannel, red, green, tan, black, white, jumbles, like me
My cold feet stick out,
            they rest painfully on a wood bar long stripped of stain
An old soul trapped with the mind of a child in a teenager's body.
This be will interesting.

open yawning chasm
theearth said night and the sky said beauty
pinpricked photon punching absolute uncertainty
certainly a most green and sharply thorn
upon your stem
i grasp
blood

In the context of things unknown
the leaves have fallen far into these doubts roads I travelled on summer's humid days now pinpricked with touches of gold
wheels blast past,
and the remnants of this past year rustle, there is a mystery in the coolness of this air will winter be one we can still bear?

In the context of things known,
I leave memories of all our growth
under the shade of baring branches
as days go by,
they'll be buried under the delicacies of fall until next year,
when the burden of the snow
has shifted their weight
I'll be back to bury more

If I were to be a day,
It would be overcast
And I'm not even sure that light
Would come, or ever last. 

If I were to be a breath,
I would be shallow
Hard to take, hard to keep
From a chest too hollow. 

If I were to be a heart,
I would be almost whole
Except for the time I let it sit out
And you pinpricked a hole. 

If I were to be a house,
I'd have an iron-bound door
Nothing would enter without my say
And I wouldn't go out anymore. 

If I were to be a song,
You'd never hear my words
They'd be in a language you don't know
The language of hurt.

The eyes are a pair of globular organs of sight in the head of humans and vertebrate animals
Or are the eyes the window to the conscious soul?
They call me the Devil’s Advocate
Traditionally on the left side of your shoulder, purring that dead angels lie too
The lost pulse has been cause to abacinate
The light is blinding but you descry right through its laments, where the fleeting hope sings a tune that quavers as classical
The light is blinding but so is the crepuscular, encapsulated in a vessel of defeatism, powerless to shift my sole.
Your shut asymmetrical globes are created boundless by all existing matter that make them a home.

A Molotov cocktail in the shape of a hollow *****, reminiscent of wartimes and tearing without the gas
I choke on the smoke rings of the lit wick and I’m reminded that I hate going in circles and around
But they are also vessels of protection, a place for kumbaya’s around the fire where time is used to back-track
The deepest longings and recollection in my Purple Heart cannot be explained by how it beats 115,000 times each day
To hell with the sorry excuses and fleeting ideas of the Beaujolais

The soul is the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.
Let your spirit descend into you again, fill your body like the dripping of Adam’s Ale from broken pipes
Yes, they are cracked, but your chest is not a bird’s nest in December
They are reminiscent of, but are not the promises your teenage self-made to your mother, saying, “I’ll be home by eight”.
Press your hands to the aviary your beating heart has been trying to escape, touch it softly, and this will be the first time in years you've been kind to the keeper of the grey
Glaze into the looking glass and hold your fists back, let go of the sharpness of your words and risk forgetting yourself
End the match that pinpricked the flame of hatred, and bleed out the blue and black of yesterday.  

They call me the Devil’s Advocate,
You hang from the trees, but I don’t believe in gravity.

I can feel the barbs and the thorns
protruding from my skin
as i sit hunched and quiet
dont touch me dont touch meE don t tou ch me
every fingertip feels like knives
and your kisses are a cruel poison.
i am my own armour
because in this story,
the pinpricked princess
saves herself.

If I could slide down icy slopes of skin
then I could burrow my way in
my fingers claw through me
to you
distant memories become vivid truth

I want you to ******* heart
bruised and swollen from beating so fast
I want a little too much
to run through veins, feel every touch

I need to be the only one
to feel your pulse, feel your warmth
some say this kind of need is creepy
but i just want you to keep me
and me to keep you, safe
encircled by my ribcage

I want to merge my soul with yours
just to see something magical occur
I want red beads from your pinpricked skin
to fall onto mine, and sink in

Be my ink, I'll be your pen

Today is a pale day, A grey day. But that is not why it is pale. It is pale because it is colorless, another drop in the bucket. My inadequacy grows symmetrically with my own dissatisfaction. And I am shelled with explosive thoughts all derivative and predictable. For the loose sand that I sift through my senses creates a thin mask of foundationless kernels. All the candy is wrapped up in bright packaging to attract the eye and disguise the paltry nutrition within; an old, worn out evolutionary trait used supposedly to search for new food sources. And I am left ever conscious trapped by my own logic in the new paradigm that is lonely and empty. Sometimes I wish I lived before all our great wars, back at the height of aristocracy. When we all lived by the romantic images of our minds and men made change by god inspired will. As the world was much larger then; so large that we could ignore it’s vast esoteric workings and rest comfortably in our own intuition. Whether the world is material or immaterial is irrelevant and meaningless. I only want to know whether it is mine or isn’t. Is my stake in this world or is it’s in mine? Is my destruction my choice, or his? And even this is irrelevant in the end because it has no purchase on my actions anyway. The fact is I feel as though I’m in control and all scientific fact points in the opposite. And so today is pale, again. And my life feels empty, until another brief glimpse in to the shadow of teleology passes through my sensorial geodesic and I am wrenched headlong back into comfortable narrative. I am the waffle ******. I own the waffle. And I wander down along the dotted time line with my blinders on, occasionally slipping on the balance beam and smashing, crotch first, into the irreconcilable and incomprehensible night of entropy. Ever circling back through all my fancy “knowledge” and landing again on the feet that my father gave me. Coming, once again, to the sanctimonious and systematic pattern of myself, I lay unawares, viewing only through a pinpricked hole, into the wasteland of the real. I am left only to gape in awe at the persistence of my dream.

sliding into the black-dark
where no streetlamps break
false sunshine into the night
we wait in our caves, warm
with electric candles bright
light pinpricked in black earth
where little people dwell
in the shelter of the milky-way

you are moonlight kissed, and—
yes, moonlight kissed
and I, in winds, solidly see

beads of my beloved grief strung
in stranger fingers
spidering around reckless on strings—
and waves waves tiding, in ecstasy woven
by violins I dare not learn, by flutes seeping, and sitars
calling home a bird astray

Vivaldi: a dry Storm sob that will not blossom,
not, not, will not— twig fingers curl to taut fists as— Winter
dribbles down on the ragged red throat and
night like silk
silk silk— silks on silks opaque! Ah—

the troughs and oily hills zigzagging
through the air

and violins turn to pinpricked limbs
and strums strums skipping
tugging cruel and tearing—
plucking tendons, plucking desperate and fast

-

you are moonlight kissed as
the silver blush is teased
by sea-creatures’ scaled splashes—
a thousand good griefs tossed to air;
but I am body only
two woody legs folded in a branching of arms
next to the trunk that timidly breathes, next
to the fist-sized squirrel—

my roots like cold fat moles curled up
symphonies rush by giggling
and I do not tremble

The stars are out:
rhinestone belts
frozen mid-lash.

The wasp-wax sun
broke its last crutch,
sleeps behind the hill,

& the smeary bone-pocks
of moon are slouching
silently overhead.

We are inhabited by the dead.
They live inside us, smoking calmly,
like a recently fired gun.

The vapor is carving its way
toward the envenomed starlight,
yellowed drips, old waves.

This humid umbrella, pinpricked
with the soft vacillations,
briefly covers us both:

we huddle under the winding,
thousands of miles apart.
Your river laps against the stone,

my river floods the pine path.
We chat about lost cats.
Stars are dying despite our spells.

Here where the town has gone
The final kerbside flush
Against the straggled ends
Of summer weeds

Above the tarmacked hills
Cars fall and rise  
Ever casting pinpricked lights
They navigate the starless nights

Each time we stooped
Inside that parabolic arch
We left chalk marks
With our restless feet

Perhaps we sought
A turning point
A way to stifle down all thought
Of when our road might start

Did life come here on some cosmic speck?
A single cell inside a shooting star;
I wonder if we travelled far,
before we slid into the bubbling sprawl?
A place hospitable enough
for the stuff from which we're made
to grow and split and split and grow
before - ergo a beak, a stalk, a wink, a squawk,
a carnival of creeping creatures,
each one with its own distinctive features!
So when we pause to comtemplate,
the night sky's pinpricked winking lights,
is the flame that stirs inside
a homesickness for where we came?