Untitled

When your powers were under the microscope

Deciding what to believe in

I knew you when

Reasons for flying, or for crashing and dying

And pondering original sin

I knew you when

When Christ is your Superman reach out for what you can

God can only work through what He recieves from you

All the books and magazines the glow of your computer screen

Creates artificial men

Who do you worship then?

Reach Within

I do not want the finished product.
I do not want your polished veneer, the facade of flawless glass.
I do not want to see a completed wooden idol, for millions to worship.
I do not want the finality of you.
I want your rough draft, your unedited script.
I want the sand, before being ignited and formed.
I want the wood chips, sweetly scented and scattered as the wind blows.
I want you, as you are, glorious and humble in your incompleteness.

A smudge of waterproof mascara runs down her cheek.  Streaked there, her war paint, a dark stain on her countenance.

She's moving on.

She thought she was strong.  But, like the mascara, she melted away in the tears.  Contemplative now, she sits waiting for her inner light to shine through the blackness of the smudge; to hint at an inner happiness, and give her a vision of things to come.  But tears blur the vision and pull one more rough dark path down her cheek.

Is it possible she's weak?

She never was meant to sit in crystalline perfection.  Shattered and stained, she decides to move on.  Even fragments are beautiful, in their glittering multifaceted way.

Untitled Dedicated

Broken connections and late-night reflections bring back foggy memories of you
Stolen tomorrows and yesterday's sorrows help deeds of today to ring true

So whisper so sweetly, concisely, discreetly and say what I do to your heart
Yours are the thoughts and the mischievous plots that won my mind right from the start

Tell me your schemes that hatch out from your dreams, ideas so orange and red
Color connections and wispy reflections that work their way into my head

You fill me up to the brim of the cup, just waiting to tip and spill out
You are the boat that keeps me afloat and you keep me from washing about

Impassioned

This is the sound of fire and flame
The whispers of pure whiteness, the color of the cotton sheets tangled around us
The crackling of embers lighting behind your eyes
A mute, deep, tangible hush, like that in a church before dawn breaks

This is the touch that moves like a falling leaf in a storm
Lighting gently on warm skin, to cause an almost indiscernable shiver
Caressing so that tenderness seems equal to an avalanche
And passion equal to the tempest of all lovers in ages past

This is how we rise, all encompassing, to meet the dawn as it's breaking
Seeing the universe and its billions of stars etched in the glory of your face
The impassioned Gods contained in the wonder of your flesh and blood
The poets flowing forth from your lips in an ecstacy of Life

This is how we crumble together
This is how we sleep wrapped in eachother, skin to skin
This is how we dream

Transcendance and Translation

Before you were born, I floated within you
Before you could talk, I spoke to your heart, soul and mind
Before you had learned to love fully, I fully loved you
I have helped shape the mountains to your footsteps
The clay to your hand
As you mold your world to fit your spirit
I gave voice to the inner thoughts of the trees and the rocks
Translating as your hand touched, crossing over
Transcending and descending to your deepest parts
The oceans are nothing compared to the tears I have shed for you
The deserts are cold compared to the fire I feel for you
The heart of the earth is a beating thing
The magma its blood
What pain have I endured for you, my One, my Only
What cutting, destruction, and poisons do I suffer for love of you
What burning agonizing bliss, what fiery possessive passion
For you, you, are the culmination of all my eons
And for you, inside you, will I live

The Unintended Lover

Woo me
Although you do not intend to
Seek me
Although you are not looking
Mind and body are separate, not one in the same
And gladly will I share my mind with you
Touching in mental processes
Desiring to understand more
So woo me, seek me
After all, how could I resist

Love Is A Questing, Digesting Thing

Love is a questing, digesting thing.  It feeds and seeks, and desires nothing but other love, feeding on it insatiably, while making you crave more and more in an endless and almost unstoppable cycle.  Two lovers whose love for eachother is equal are filled with passion, a wonderful burning seeking desire to always feed on the other's love for all eternity, forever seeking to find more.

But when love is one-sided, it becomes a beast.  It will turn on you and consume you instead.  Having not found love to feed upon in your Other, it will turn and devour all your self-love in its driving need to find ardour and passion that has been lost. And in this way, you can be lost.  Consumed.  Another victim to the heart and desire to be loved.

Writer's Block

Here I stare at an empty page.  I know it shall soon fill up with something, but I could never tell you what.  The pencil is restless in my hand, it wants to write, yet...nothing seems to come out.  It is as if the spirit that should flow so freely has run dry, like ink in a too-old pen, causing scratchings on the paper that simply frustrate.  I want to be inspired.  I want to feel a release, to feel my hand moving almost as if of its own accord.  Oh to feel that freedom!  To know the strangeness of reading over what I have written, and not being familiar with it at all.  And yet, here I sit.  Pencil in hand.  Waiting, waiting for the Muse to inspire and overtake me.

....

Stupid Muse.

Death, Love, and Life

They don't see the rest of me
They don't see the love of scouring through images of the Capuchin Catacombs
Looking at the stark story of life embedded on the dried stretched faces
They don't know of the frank curiosity with death's processes
Stopping by the deer carcass on the back road day by day, watching what happens
They don't comprehend the deep wonder of old pocked stone
Old leather books
Old bygone worlds
Children's gravestones in the centuries-old cemetaries
Prayers to God scrawled in 1840's prayer compilations
Whispers of other times emanating from delapidated houses

They can comprehend only my acceptable joys
My love of beaches, of waves
Of rain and snow
Of looking out the window to find flowers budding in the garden
They have themselves known the delight of freshly washed sheets
Or the thrill of the top of a roller coaster, just before plummeting
They can understand my protective fierce love of my children
My kisses on soft cheeks and curly heads
My prideful watching of lessons learned and things achieved

They even would understand my passion
The deep fulfillment of being skin to skin, body to body
The raw joy of physical connection
The sensuality and simple power of touch
Of fingertips lightly running the length of your spine
Or my lips resting, just so, on the small of your neck
And feeling strong arms keeping me close
Heightening every sensation to the point of ultimate bliss


But they don't know
Not everything
Because they would not understand

On The Communication Of Music

Music, springing as if from a long-forgotten long-buried font
   Loud clear crystal, tripping sprightly past bits of daylight
A rush, the mind crying for more, not wishing the song to ever end
   Though end it does, with laughter rolling forth, a cry of hurrah on the lips

Or misty and dark, pulling to one side and whispering "slowly, slowly"
   A soft breath, leaning back on a summer's eve with eyes closed
A soft smile, an extended hand, or is it a tender thought touching
   With tears standing in the eyes long after the last strain passes

Or somber and thoughtful, hushing wanton revelry
   Telling of what has been, what may be, what has passed already
Lost loves and forgotten wars and sorrows still fresh to the listening ear
   Reminding with deep note and structure to heed past action

No language for the transmission of words and ideas
   Just chords and sensations and the thrill of ultimate inclusion
Knowing this to be joyful, that melancholy, this other a cry to arms
   With nothing but a melody and a tempo to translate thoughts

Until I Met You

I was happy until I met you

Fulfilled in the deep sense of the word

Having everything that I might have imagined, but I wasn't imagining enough

I had something, someone to make me who I wanted to be

But in the process I was forgetting who I was

Turning my back on certain Truths about my being

To attempt the image of myself that I had constructed since childhood

I have never been normal

Never wanted the attainable

Never succumbed to the classness of society

But I was happy

Happy with my partner

Happy with my ambitions, my petty ambitions

That fall away from the stalk now like kernels of corn from the ear

On a parched Kansas day in August

I did not want to fall away

Rather, I yearned to keep that happiness wrapped around me like the sheath

Blind to the heat

Blind to the pointlessness

Until you, the free bird that found me, shook the stalk and sent me flying

And where do I fall now?

I was happy until I met you

My love of morbidity shunned

My intrigue about life, old Life, cast aside

You awoke my Truths, awoke me

And where do I fall?

I was dry and did not know it

Hollowed but could not feel it

I was happy until I met you, and we have never even met