Don't love me,
Please don't touch
                      me (as if I were
poison ivy)
But
Let me run barefoot
Through the morning
Dew, and caress
The
Vines, when they bloom,
Let me
Get drunk with the
Rays of the day,
And I'll make you
Sleep like a bird in its nest,
For you, I'll hold
All summer rains in my arms,

…Only for you
I will carry all summer rains, I'll carry them
In my arms,
Like a heart on fire...

the space
was invaded by his disappearance,
everything he touched felt so quiet, and alive,
more alive than i was,

(i sat on the bed, curled, like a dog,
with the nozzle on its paws,
eyes in tears)

the chair remained near the window,
closer to the flowers, and closer to the light,
i watched it as if it belonged to a king: -
this chair knew him better, - i never
could imprint his image, it was always slippery, like ice,
and,
now, my innocent eyes, like the best detectives, are
trying to reconstruct his body,
drawing its contour in the air, how you would
outline a dead person on the asphalt,

its scent, i follow,
how the air goes back and forth, from me to the chair,
from the chair to me, filling the invisible shape,

i could sense as if he were sitting
somewhere in the room, in a corner,
his skin, and his touch was there; it felt
as if he made love with the room, with the bed, and
the bed was in love with his body for letting
the memory of him to be its very essence, the
concave shape deepening in the mattress, and
the mattress was breathing as if it had its heart in it.

it was the ~fureur~ its very core,
the turbulence - it felt like the walls were built for
this kind of appearance,

the home without unequal images
it was just a cave waiting for the man
to be born again, and discover the fire

And
I’ll never be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I will never hide my chickenpox,
Grind me to sand, and I'll shout to the wind,
Wash me! Wash me away!

I’ll never pretend that I am pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,
I’ll let my skin dry like the Atacama desert,
I’ll let the harsh mountain storm bite my face,
The eagles eat my flesh on the tower of silence, so
There is nothing left to dream about,
Not even bone dust for the rain,

I’ll fight like gladiators, not to be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I won’t let the clouds overshadow my scalp,
I’ll pull right now, one by one, every hair follicle,

What you ask me to be is not beauty, it is a butterfly
That flies and flies around a light bulb
Until it dies

A shadow that weaves white nights,
I will not invent myself to be pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,

If you wish to enter my blood,
You have to swim in the imperishable waters,

to make you fall asleep
like a bird in its nest,
I’ll hold all the
summer rains in my
arms
just for you
I’ll carry all
summer rains, I will
carry them in
my
arms,
like a heart on fire

One of the first times I
went to jail, it was in
Polk County for
public intox.
Drunk in public.
I was homeless for years,
where else was I supposed
to get drunk?

They took me to the
station booked me, and gave
me my phonecall.
I called the bail bonds.
They wanted collateral.
I didn't have anything.
To act tough, I said,
"*******." and hung up.

The cop asked if I felt suicidal.
I didn't but in my drunken
stupor, I said,
"I wish I were dead, you ******* pig."

My next steps were to a small
room with a drain in the middle of
the floor.  They had me strip all my
clothes off and gave me a paper gown.
It was the worst ten hours in jail I
ever spent.
Then, I did wish I was dead.

I was released the next morning.
Kind of sober, and kind of glad to
be alive.
I changed into my clothes.
I found two valiums in my back pocket.
I took them quickly and thought I
need to find a safer place to
get drunk.

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

Does veiled cosmos swathed in cosmic foam dream,
Do galaxies in murmur birth their light,
Do stars in quasar flares and dreams then seem
To long for worlds that thirst for infant light.
In voids hum seeds of Chronos’ woven scheme,
Do clusters spin like gyres to seek a role,
Does spacetime’s fabric fold to weave a theme,
A fractal tapestry devours the whole.

Do barren worlds dream brines where life might grow,
Does life envision choices not yet made,
Does life in dreams contemplate joy and woe,
Does life foresee all paths that fade to shade.
Does life remember flames from which we came,
Does life imagine actions left undone,
Does life feel past and future burn the same,
Does life count stars while choosing only one.

Do all these dreams compress to one small sprawl,
What do they say of him who dreamed us here,
Is there a line between the dream and all,
Or does it vanish when we look more near.
Is all of time a Möbius we trace,
Do endless fractals break before they join,
Does ever rhythm fold back into space,
Do strings of fate converge to point and coin.

Do cells in night consult their core machine,
Do mitochondrial fires desire more sight,
Do atoms dream of wonders yet unseen,
Is this entangled dance our secret rite.
Do quarks in shadows whisper things below,
Do neutrinos in silence come and flee,
Do bosons dance to songs we do not know,
Do wave and particle just try to be.

And still we kneel before new gleaming screens,
Replace the cross with profits’ shameless flow,
We swipe and pray for signal’s blessed beams,
Our offerings to brands we barely know.
We scroll for salvation in our feed,
Our selfie liturgy hides voids below,
We worship updates, join the market’s speed,
Yet still we lack the gifts that faith bestow.

Our science masks its sorcery from sight,
Faith taught us morals, wisdom, guided ways,
Secular sirens coax the self to bite,
To feed consuming hunger night and day,
Belief in profit robs the people’s light,
And makes the marketplace our church of praise.
We sanctify the accident as right,
Though interest and peril write the plays,
We hail it progress, heedless of its price,
Our blindness feeds the system as it stays,
We trade our souls for gilded vice’s hot spice,
And lose the harvest in controlling rays.

After these dreams and altars, what’s remain,
Do we still seek some meaning true and pure,
Or do we circle back to dream again,
A spark endures in slumber ever pure.
Can hope sustain the circle’s endless chain,
Or will it settle in forgotten mist,
May love and wisdom yet again remain,
And may the cosmos whisper we are kissed.