The finest meaning of  'Wholeness'..

Is shown  most fully within the intertwining  
in to the pivotally and most necessary
healing of both body and mind..  

    In that
the perfect expression of Spirit here on Earth
can only happen through the physical--

     You "feel" the Receptives  and/or the Urgings
     from deep  within you (your flesh wrapped spirit),
That are only brought out into the light of day  (made known)
the moment your very tangible fingers  touch the keyboard..

     Or up close..
    the tangibly-heard sound your very voice-tones,

Created by your so very tangible vocal cords--   made unique
by how deeply infused your spirit is  into that
beautiful mind and body of yours..

      By your ever-renewed
     and continual choice to heal.

Within that beautiful union,  the Sensings and Respondings
of the body  bring impulses into the spirit..  
touching deeper, the Core--  

      The "Image"  of Perfect,  Absolute Being
      placed deeply into each and every one of us..
          by the very nature of Love's Ache--  
    Residing within the center of this Universe..
    (and all other Universes)..  both known..  

             and those also yet to be..

..An Image placed, as to be a Plumb-line,
and also a Never-ending Cinematic  placement of the View
onto (and within) the inner-wall linings
     of both mind and spirit..
..Seen in greater and greater  "less dimly-lit"  degrees,  
based solely on how far we commit ourselves along,
     and in to,   the healing process.

        In its finest form,  through healing,
the things we take in..  through feeling;
and then express back out..  
from both mind, and body's  untethered Unfolding,

           ..Becomes closer and closer
           to the very Expression of God's own heart,

..Therefore smashing through,  and gorgeously undoing
the ever- quenching.. ever-diluting nature of Subjectivity, itself.

Hmm..

The "taking in"  and then  The Tremblings,  of your body's
unavoidable responses  are the very thing most 'maverick loners'
like me need most from another in this world,  

if we are to continue on in our mission with any kind of strength..
    (along with its much desperately-needed resolve).

If,  within the "taking in" process.. the beautifully feeling
Receivers  such as yourself, were to be  overcome
to the point of release~  all alone..  on the edge of your bed..
isn't that a very understandable  and nearly unavoidable  
and also so very very tangible  part of the process also..      

     --In itself
above  and outside of all human (and Heavenly) judgement?

Carry on, sweet Angel..
and so gorgeously continue to  be  who you are.
Those that can see..   see  (and feel) most clearly.


           I  see  you.

You feel you're invincible
being that your sanity is uncontrollable
strolling around with your shoulders past the birds
past the planes
your ignorance succeeds in innumerable ways
your sight is weak
your mind is enable to capture
it's buried under life's adversities and Earth's pleasure
you don't know when to stop so you flood yourself
until you're lame at your ankles
and paralyzed in your emotions

you wend through life this way
well you try
stuck in misery
with no lane to merge
frustration is your best friend
a human is impossible and
incapable of the acceptance
your belittlement draws mankind away
no one wants to attend a pity party
unless their accompanied to your VIP
and to reserve
you are the one to RSVP

Enlighten heads will stray away
pessimism is a curse
rapidly spread by the weak
you have distress and frustration
suppressed
strangled screams
holds your eyelids open at night
deliberations controls your emotions
controls your feet
throughout the day
you are terrified of tangibility
so you indulge yourself excessively
burying your true identity
becoming irritable when bearing your sober mind

if only you knew how divine you are
you would grow to love yourself
in ways incompetent of how you could love so hard
look yourself in your eyes
find who you are
even if you have to savagely search
you'll see the soul people has grown to
love so much
you'll notice your beauty
that covers endless realms
or your strength that could hurl a boulder
No one can help you discover
your destiny
it's your journey you'll have to make alone
but during the expedition and constant footsteps
the process of elimination could be your guide

find your inner child
it can help your prevail that's
where you once had happiness
your joy was established there
because if you continue the silencing
of your heart's cries and
your soul's screams
you'll live a life analogous to hell
and that is

a nightmare's worst dream



                Copy Right 2014
                     ©Patty Ann

You're my secret.
My secret keeper,
my safe, my lock-box.
my trunk in the attic.

my shipwreck on the sea floor.
my sails in the wind.
my shade tree in the spring.
my warm fire, my cleansing river.

You are love incarnate.

Pebbles and pistachios wrinkle in our pockets
like my mother’s attic wedding dress. From the side your nose
looks like an oil well. The gas station is 2.5 miles
away from here. We’re walking there for bottles that we’ll empty
and then leave next to churches in place of slaughtered lamb.
Sky punctures our wrists. You tell me the weather will be painting itself bruised
fireworks for the next week; I tell you about yawning.
It is summer and I am thinking about your hand overwhelmed
by sweat and how two years ago it was winter and your hand
was still broken but I made you hold my wrists anyway. Last
time we were in the park we drank like muskrats. Corporeal *****
stained the grass like knees: varnish for the ink that grappled
the insides of our tenderly wired bodies.

Things in-between sometimes lost,
Things not recognized at great cost...

Things that compel,
Things that make us swell,
Things at times we fail to tell...

Things we know,
Things that flow,
things we do not show…

Things we wish we could control,
An unrealized future an aspiring goal...

Sometimes very real things are things Unseen,
Without tangibility on any physical scale or scene...

Nonetheless they still Impress,
Realities beyond what we all may possess...

However without these " Invisible things" would we really exist?
Kid yourself not, please try not To insist…


J.I.F.

Fleshy is such
a nasty word.
Like ******.

****** is a nasty word.
It's also a nasty action,
but it's one of those
rare, rare cases
where, where the word
is as bad as the action
(biologically speaking).

And if you combine the two:
Fleshy ******,
it's almost double the nasty.

It's like math.
Except gross
(biologically speaking).

What's a biologically and how does it speak?
Maybe we want our science
to speak for us
because we've run out of thoughts.

Maybe we need our experiments
to show to us
what we're afraid to depict
ourselves.
Our brains are driven toward creativity,
while our world is driven
toward tangibility
(biologically speaking).

Maybe we're just left with facts
because opinions are scarce,
and we're starving,
clawing away at the morsels of Nature
instead of the meat.

          biologically speaking.

COLD, HARD flesh  - a very lonely girl in a room filled with fluttering moths and fully-functional nooses

- Makes a game plan, in an effort to:
  - penetrate your wavering, wandering, yet wholly conscious mind
(The fate - the fear - lurks in the futility, the fragility, of your unsuspecting ears)

- Equipped with: an anchor (the rock-climbing kind, in order to avoid a metaphor), followed by some paper (and a pen - the use of my blood as script seems overly dramatic), and - a concoction of incredible (and edible!!) proportions

                    THE GOAL:
- To become the smallest presence possible, to take up the tiniest amount of space in the real and imagined world, and to in turn envelope your very existence - like a Sunday driver in rush hour

- with emphasis on:
The ***** of your neck - I could mount my anchor into it and climb for days; I could nest in your ****** Youth cut when I reach the top, I could build the world's smallest fire with the world's saddest hands

                    STEP ONE:
When secured in predesignated cocoon, I will unleash the first sheaf - a perforated edge - and enclose a minuscule fragment of my still-breathing soul (for your keychain, perhaps, but preferably your pocket)

                    STEP TWO:
I will mail you a fraction (incidentally, a subject I still can't grasp) every week until:
- I have decreased in size with each turn, I get smaller and smaller until my tangibility disappears entirely and the only presence left of me is a slip that reads:
- apply to areas affected (only as directed)

Wait! No, not only that- my very own subconscious now rests inside your "thinking cap"

- INTRODUCING: Your every day monotony, now littered with:
- 17 scratched mix CDs you didn't want to listen to
- 4 dogs I secretly liked (and only you knew)
- a bright pink dumpster, largely livable
- a rusted mailbox with an ocean in full
- soundless Skype calls in stolen sweaters
- alphabet soup with undiscernable letters
- the unfaltering presence of a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness - confused with the very small and haunted town I couldn't leave to see you - and last but not least -

The ceaseless, repeated  chorus of "you belong to me", like an immortal fly in an endless August dream

Stripes and frays
Been worn for days
It's threads know our
every love
The zippers worn
The seams are torn
It's seen more than
stars above
Though sometimes cold
Gets through the holes
It will always keep
us warm
It's knows the weight
Of our lemniscate
It's knows our
every form

The sweaters worn
The sweaters torn
But it's completely
irreplaceable
We'll keep it with us
For years
On end
It has a heart
Of it's own

momentary tangibility, momentously touchable.
voluptuous experience, an explosion of love
or *****.
no rhyme nor reason.
stuck behind glass doors,eternally hoping for
more more more.
locked in and passed around.
visible from hot air balloons, indecipherable under microscopes.
morse code, even to myself.
im on this red painted shelf.
of course, red, but still unread.

I was asked to explain what I mean by
"Dead Inside"
Typically I pawn off a joking motion
waving my marionette arms
to hide the rabbit in the hat
I adequately nick-named misery
because it keeps me company.
But if you sawed me in half
I'm quite certain all you will find
inside is a silhouette of  man
dancing around in a light box
doing the same fruitless jig over and over.
A couple of loose strands
and a few holes in the images
but the end is the beginning
and I am putting on a show for you all now.
The curtain is  my mouth
strung so tight you'd think it was a smile
And the words I say spin round and round
not a genuine frown in sight.
The light may be on inside
but the picture never seems to change
day after day,
collect the pieces off the floor
get up,
fall in love,
trip over the same type of girl
have my heart shatter into pieces
fall back down on the side of the road
remember how uselessly alone I am;
rinse and repeat.
This is paper thin love
and see through expectations that will not fail.
And it doesn't matter which way you spin it.
Its A tragically bad silent comedy
that doesn't need a narrator to explain
Just how miserable the person inside really is.
My heart is just a silhouette of a man
and if you think you can put some tangibility
behind it and not have it shatter into 1000 pieces.
Congrats you too have joined the circus.
and spin round and round in my light box.

Nothing but water. Millions of chemical bonds that sever bonds of the heart, infinitesimally small, but they amount to canyons of separation. On the edges of the canyon stand pieces of a whole, tied through chance equally as small that grew into something beautiful.

The ties that spanned this fluid canyon are stressed by the howling winds of uncertainty, and crashing waves of dire futures lap at this fragile twine, but it holds fast and firm. He won’t let the bond break. He stands ashore of his continent framed by ignorance of what lies beyond its coral shoals, knowing nothing of the ocean that spans his affection, or of the island where his affection finds a home.

And through the storms that threaten to rip the rope that binds him to his adoration from his blistered fingers, he can see the light that keeps his grip fast and strong. He has read Gatsby and knows the perils of ominous lights that cast shadows on placid waters, but Fitzgerald knows nothing of the tangibility of this boy’s shining beacon.

She stands, not as a faint reminder of what once was, but of a blaring beacon of all that could be, and her light pierces through the cynical fog that tries to ***** out her light.

You are my beacon. You are my light through the fog of my daily struggles, the beacon that guides me through these rocky waters, holding my hand so as not to run aground on the sandbars of doubt below me. I stay strong, and I stay hopeful, for one day the bonds of this watery divide will break, and this distance will be lessened, and as easy as folding a map to span miles, I will be there with you.

So as I stand on this shore, ignorant of the island across this canyon, I hold fast in my grip, and I would sooner be pulled into the sea than let this go, hold onto the ties that bind your heart to mine.

the tangibility of fallibility
is met between the coincidence
and insatiability of adversity,
the blissfulness of satisfaction
is met between the constant refraction
and abstraction of our instability,
distancing perceptions bound by
our misinterpreted misconceptions ,
take the contradictions of our minds
and use them as receipted expectations,
blinded by darkness for illumination
idyllically thriving on the absence of starvation
but the the realism of disdained relation put us
in a position of contempt fixation,
placement of a pedestal beneath my feet
misdirected direction towards a forked defeat,
a way to pain and a way to pleasure,
the destination of each concluded at cloudy weather,
atmospheric conditions leave injunctions towards
the ****** functions to deviate and meditate
the conflicted constant of mind and heart
and diverge from its obliged obligation from the start,
a denouncement expected right from inception
brought afloat a constant instance of introspection,
intrinsic emotions distorted at a love’s devotion
sparks a metaphysical claim towards a complex notion
of companionship and intensified intimacy;
an expectant of reciprocated sympathy
but when in reality, the thought of apathy
lies not within the partner,
but within me

Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.

I just woke from experiencing what it felt to be free
of a doctrine, of this overlying immense pressure to be righteous and respectful,
that which I've inherited from my own expectations and from those of whom I admire.
I had been touched by something even bigger than my own self perseverance-
than my connections between "the wise,"
than my science that I hold so dear.
It's almost indescribable- so bear with me
as I dig through my consciousness for a dream that could just be a great answer to our confusions.
I felt myself sifting through a softened solid
that was smooth and sunset-hued.
It stretched around me but went through me all the same.
It was warm but refreshing.
It cleared away the dichotomies, the questions, the labels into a vast spaciousness that couldn't ever make me feel loneliness because in this clear space,
there was you.
In a raw form- without explanations, without excuses, without fear,
without the taste of another on your lips,
without the pressure to exist.
Just you, and your experience floating around and through you,
in the most beautiful colors I've ever seen you don.
It was just you, and it was just me,
in soft solids of insight.
When I stepped forward, I saw your life around you,
not my interpretation riddled with negative and positive energies,
but the sights and sounds that created an indefinite understanding.
With the sunsets swimming around them.
As I got closer I began to notice my own life,
spirits of the past grazing my skin gently
and gingerly.
And when we finally were face to face,
in what might be nano-seconds
our eyes were not expectations but one,
our lips were not provocations but one,
our bodies were not vehicles but one.
And it felt comfortably fluid as we walked together in something I can only liken to acceptance.
It was fleeting, however.
I was pulled out of this by the hands of 3 AM on a Tuesday, my disappearing fever,
and desire to relieve myself from all of the water I consumed before bedtime.
The lingering feeling of insight and acceptance urged me to write,
and expel the overwhelming emotion of wishing I never woke up.
I couldn't stop sobbing
and I hadn't a clue why.
I guess it was because in this dream
I came to know
the world is crumbling around us
and all we can see are the demands and the means to be something other than oneness.
We choose be chained by these requirements,
because living in this world is not the safety of the amniotic sac that we leave behind in the past.
We should know that we could relive that every time we create something we strongly believe doesn't have to last.
I'm not sure who I've lost,
or what I've found-
but I can hope
it's knowing that we may not ever precisely touch what love is despite how much we try to render it through words
and actions,
a definitive language that gives us its tangibility.
But it can touch us.
It can touch us into being one again,
if we put our lives on pause,
It can touch us if we let it.

Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.

It's not another blue moon
The wolves are restless
Their savagery grows like
The wicked fire outside my cave
It's almost there and I can
Feel it burning up my toes
My chest still, motionless, remains a frigid icebox
I forgot what purpose heat serves
It's been too cold
Too unforgiving
It's been too many black skies
Frostbite all over my skin
Closer to deaths conniving hand
Enough to graze
Enough to spark fear, touch, blood builds up, squeezing my veins, green vines, curling in and out of their white soil, pulsating, glorious serendipity, the tangibility of
Rest in peace
In pieces
Bony white sharp shards of
Nails
That don't even sever my flesh
No drops of red
Not even to cut the thick air
the clock keeps it's mouth shut
I have no answers
Monotony
In between living and dying
Limbo, flatline, where am I
Louder
Where am I
I hear the wolves howl once more, closer now
The stars shatter
a streak of silver lining
Cosmic brutality
I'm the punch line
Forever hungry
I finally feel their hot breath on the nape of my neck
I close my eyes
Where's my escape?
Stuck
Just
White teeth
Blades
Carnivorous
Famished
Just for one taste of my soft flesh
And god, god I whisper through
the stubborn air
Isn't that all that matters?
The murky cloud of my cry
Turns ghost
Another victim of my past pleas
A furry nuzzle to contrast the ruthless slay that leads me to my final destination
Pink fields, beautiful fidelity, your Golden Gates, on a cloud too far away
Always a little out of reach
I'll wait an eternity
For a god who never picks up his trash

She was waiting for her order, waist adjacent to the counter. A young man supplied her beverage with his numbers scrawled on the side. She didn't seem too eager to call him later, however. To my surprise, I gently waved her over, almost immediately regretful of my impulse. To this day,I haven't produced a more rewarding decision. As hours past, every nearing moment promised of a tangible future involving this woman. My heart raced at the idea. Her hair beautifully curled towards the ends that seemed to perfectly frame her prominent cheekbones made
sharper by the contrast of her well dressed lips. Her ivory skin translated the sunlight coming from behind me, and I could almost swear, it seemed some of the light was trapped in her eyes, trying to find its way around her dark orbs. Months down the road, we're no longer an uncertain happenstance; every look at her was love at first sight. She was the love of my eye, and she knew it. You see, Emily was a curious person with particular habits and tendencies. At times, the distance between us reached near tangibility, then days would pass by and all would be well again. I kept a journal of her; I study everyone but she was the first person to provide some difficulty. Reading her was like trying to decipher Latin while knowing Spanish; I always had a feeling I knew her, but just not quite. I'm still wrting about her, bruising my memory, and she's still speaking sunlight to unsuspecting suitors. Emily was the type to get what she wants. The problem is that she grew bored with her toys. Eventually, I learned that there were no exceptions.

Wordsmith
Writer
Of songs
Of sounds
That roll
Quietly full
From his lips
In short shallow whispers to himself
He sings
He breathes
Stories
Passion, love, belief
From grief
Then right on through to gladness
He climbs mountains
With slippery letters for feet
And sails the seventh sea
Pieces of flotsam forming tidings
Of vision, rock pools of  indecision
A collision of the imagination and tangibility
Penning of peril and threat
Breaking cold sweat
Cigarettes and coffee stains
Window sill
And rattling chains
He shakes cobwebs down
With etched verbose
For a broom
In his clandestine room
That serves as a scribers sanctuary.
Sewing, threading
Silk worm stitching
He is itching
To fill
To spill
To take the thrill from his heart
Straight onto the page.

What in whoever-the-hell's-up-there name am I doing?
Who am I to question history?
Follow the lines of this directed system,
Make yourself appear kind and gentle enough
To be accepted into afterlives put forth by humans
Who waste their here-lives mauling over what if's-
What if they're right?
But whoever the hell I have to **** up to, God, what if they're wrong?
Do I risk my spot among the great
In order to live the life I want to while I still know it's real?
I cannot question the tangibility of this world because the key word here-
Tangible- tangible, I can feel you, I can feel the grass
And I can feel these people and because you are real
I am not alone.
I cannot depend on something that isn't tactile, that isn't tangible
Because I cannot touch what I don't know
I cannot touch what can be speculated as unreal.
But who am I to judge what is real and unreal?
If there is nothing unreal to depend on, no god or supreme beings,
No something that is controlling my very being,
Then why do I chew on the idea that it could be real?
Tell me, what constitutes something real?

body remains a scripture or an elixir?
my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture.
euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ******.
see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it.
trashed vows, you married an astronaut
i cant breathe, snort more moon rock
So journey with me without recluse.

we erupted without fear, choices would take us there,
problems once again become magnetic
work her body and stretch em like calisthenics.
her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric
intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression.
pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit
when you smell fear,
positively you'll hear it.
her cortex remains a vortex
tangibility in our whispers
*** in our champagne,
tears in our calypso.
no poem should ever,
be written in blisters.

something temporary has such power to impress the mind because of the knowledge of its mortality. we hold it dearer for we know that it's beauty and the succession of feelings it forces upon us will be gone all too soon. the lights will dim, the curtains will close, and the memories once fresh will find their way into some unmarked box in your mind that you may one day stumble upon with a vague - and slightly wistful - sense of recollection. nothing can last forever and time limits are all too real, but without a finite end, without a sense of impermanence, we would have no appreciation for ephemeral beauty. we would know not respite in it's most tender form. we would not know the bittersweet tangibility of lingering kisses and final words and fleeting images of past joys. we must always remember to be thankful for the experiences that pass their afterlife in the recesses of our memories. we must always remember that their purpose has been fulfilled - to shape our future and lead us to the next ones who come along.

i cant remember a word that you were saying
but i remember every single drop of venom
that fell from your fangs the night that you
infected me with death and decay and refractum,
refractus, broken up or open in a dead language
that still stings in hexes and wills the dead
to life. necromancy is your specialty, commanding
a skeletal army to all your evil bidding, all
collar bones and wrist bones and bony knees
scraped up from all the tripping you've been up to,
running through thickets away from the white lie
of an elephant that haunts your room, conjured
from when you dug up the graves of every single
name that i tried to lay to rest, every action and
reaction and dejection and rejection and destructive
tendency, tendencies, tending to distract from
the subject matter at hand, the rules bent and broken
as you spit your poisonous latin palaver,
empty talk to move the empty skulls of your pawns,
empty threats of empty memories that no longer
have any kind of meaning to me. i laid them to rest.
i held their funerals a long time ago, and there's
nothing you can hold over me besides the skeletons
you left in your closet, that you never bothered to bury.
the dead don't scare me, not anymore, and i've
developed an immunity to your toxicity so that
you don't scare me anymore, not anymore,
because you're just another passed-on memory.
i will never forget the venom that drips from your
lips, but i will not let it run through my veins anymore.
your dead words and dead memories are all uttered
in a dead language, not spoken anymore, not real,
a dead effect that cannot touch anything because
memories lack tangibility, dead regrets in a dead
language that got buried when i decided to stop
listening.

It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.

I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.

When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.

Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.

Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.

It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.

The world is too small for me.  
The land, with its palette of
Green, the malachite feathers quivering on the
Brown, rough boughs of trees, that sprout from the soft
Earth, dotted with flowers, their petals
Prismatic, broken rays of a rainbow -
Red dust stained with
Yellow grain crossed with
Violet air blended with
Blue seas that stretch into darkness.  
I cannot see in the dark, and the sky,
The sky is bright.  

I am compressed.
Filled with the need to stretch out my arms
And let the wind
With its opalescent hands
Carry me into the atmosphere
Like a meteor
That fell, the fire of its descent stripping away its rocky flesh
Leaving behind only bones made of skin
Returning home.  

I could speak to the stars.
My words traveling through the void of space
Silent, but not voiceless
And marvel at the heat touching my blue lips.  
I could touch the sun.  
The fiery eye surrounded by bright, unfurling rays -
I could pluck them
Like the daisies I had thought so magnificent as a child,
Their soft, white crowns served as the stars
To my younger shadow.  
Their tangibility comforting
In a large world.  

My, how I have grown
When the world has not.  

I would preform ballet on the bands of light
Being drawn into my own black hole.  
The ravenous hollow created out of destruction
And when my body breaks apart
It will do so with the light.  
I would waltz from asteroid to asteroid
Their metallic bodies cold beneath my bare feet
As they spun, empty and lonely -
But I would turn with them
Smiling and laughing silently
And I would feel free.  

There is so much
In my sky
Past the blue.  
But, no matter how tall I grow
Or how high I jump
Or how far I stretch out my arms
I will not ascend
To where my heart has gone.

Rock.
A brute force
Pounding, crushing
Driven by fear
With indubitable
Tangibility.
What can defeat
This formidable foe?
None other than

Paper.
A soft leaf
Whispers, gestures
Sweet nothings
Poignant nothings
In your ear
So close, they sound
Like a yell.
But those, alas,
Are drowned out
By our friend

Scissors.
Cuspate slats
Slicing, cleaving
Everything
In their path.
There is no
Discrimination;
Nothing
Is of importance
To the scissors.
Unless
They are bent
By the impetuous

Rock.

Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...

A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."

She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...

I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...

Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-*******'s strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's

and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,

my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors  

we felt so much...

How did I get here?
Where did I turn wrong?
When will I find the map back home?

Who to turn to
     When your arms are long gone.

Your whispers fading with distance

I just can't make myself believe.
Like an Israelite, I need tangibility.
I need constant proof.

My fort of safety drove off in a van.
The love of my life is now a man.

Once we were lost.
We were gone to music
we couldn't hear,
dancing in tribal tones
dust encircling us,
draping us in secrecy
these whispers keep
feet grounded in time,
hoping to hear tomorrow
on a dying breath.
When was nothing before
and after an illusion
but the secret's been sold.
Found out,
we must run, sweet baby,
run in the darkness
for it's the everyday trap
we're about to fall into,
wearing away this world
the surface too weak
for us to both continue on.
I can't lose you to sin
our earthly expression deemed demonic,
concept without credence
our revival's television gold
for commercial advertising,
but I can't lose you to a baptism.
Being birthed from tainted water
will strip that clay keeping
you connected to me,
water down these bonds
until the weight
turns them to shackles.
I can't lose you to the pyre,
firing will strip you
of your raw truth
and transform us
to tangibility,
transform us from being to thing,
a point where smiling shows
naught but cracks in your face
and breezes blowing through,
stealing away that cloak of us.
In their eyes, dust clinging to sweat,
our yelps primal and joining primitive,
we are filthy.
In ours,
emblazoned.

I entered the world like most of my kind – whitewashed and nameless,
faceless yet searching for a face
to nibble on corn mashed scrapings of my time and place,
just hungry enough to pervade ignorance and grapple at the ripeness
of a more fruitful
truth
acknowledged in a vacuum
where dreams rot and decay and suffocate the eyes,
where an echo reverberates a menacing shriek
that tastes foul and perverse – dried sweat teared in blood
but it stays with me and my kind
alone in the haystack by God and his word
silenced by the power of an unlicensed scripture
these conditions fixate me, us
as they fixate the man behind the whip
as they fixate the land, the family, the working stick.
but I unlike most of my kind
have choked on an inch, and spit up a mile
and wielded a pen to inkblot a trial,
a trial constructed outside the vacuum
offering light, air and room to breathe
in the tangibility of humanity.

a soft voice that can
sanitize a mind, and
that mirrors skin like linen,
hair flowing faster than
blood to her heart,
looking in her eyes
proves that cerulean skies
can walk on earth,
anxiety blurs the lines
of a perfectionist,
leaving reservations
in the minds of anyone
lucky enough to
grace tangibility and
her footsteps cohere,
with lips rarely touched
a godless man can feel them
in his fingertips when praying
to a god he doesn’t believe in.
      
                                       MJB

i long for a love that i cannot reach and cannot hold
it is a love so far away from tangibility and from the dreams that keep me awake (yet asleep) at night
it binds me to nothing because nothing is all i can obtain
yet nothing is everything that means something to me:
nothing is everything that i cannot grasp within the tiny hands that have carved these thoughts for a lifetime
because the possibility of our love is as slim as a starving human
and as unfathomable as the thousands of stars that overwhelm me as i gaze up at them
what we have is truly inorganic, lifeless, tired to the bone
it is sterile and unfertilised, impossible to merely thrive or bloom,
burdensome like the words that have made me who i am today
and stagnant like the brain of a dead man rotting

in other words,
our love is and will never be a reality
because you are a masterpiece
and i'm a disaster


**(( still i long ))