An arid desert
hanging tear-like in the eye
of an unborn child.

Pouring, the bucket
splashes gifts upon the rich
leaving slaves to starve.

Waking, a dreamer
from lands untouched and unknown;
he sees the madness.

Honey wine sups serpentine,
Sweetness blended from your mouth,
drips droopily from lips to feet,
from eyes to meet eyes and lips to lips

This heady mixture's supple spirits Electrifying,
Your hand’s soft skin flows sparks and light
and prismatic auras like a thousand butterflies
From smiling eyes, and soft soul lightening skin
Embrace my hearts subtle ecstasies  

Behind the cornucopia of your apparition
Beyond the vague attempts to charge  
Distracted by a thousand butterflies, wings a flutter
Smashed off honey-wines that flow from your lips
Yet all the more I focus on that silence in your breast  

Without a season, without a compass, without a question  
The first thought when I wake
That last before I sleep

In culinary art, honey is my medium and my muse,
And two orange slices compose two butterfly wings.
Every piece I make is eaten
With equal joy as a painting brings.

My canvas is rose red with strands of white  
And when I paint, I use the spices:
Turmeric, oregano, chili, and old bay.
I use them on a salmon caught by a friend yesterday.

Detached, our distant smiles seem for another,
for another dream that might insist upon one happiness,
joined in the winter by a fine fire of our hearts content;

Upon this earth, we are but slaves to love:
to give and to be received, to take and to be taken.
My heart yearns for the in between, and yet for the extreme...

To be eviscerated by the spinning flame and scattered by the wind,
to feel the torrents of a thousand wounds, and to taste blood and sulfur on my tongue
and yet still compelled to love, though selflessly compelled.  

Silent bonds to lap at the nectar of your heart
lull me deeper, deeper, into the altar of your mystery,
showing the distance between us; the cold and heat are but a dream
to be accepted, learned, and in learning lost.  

I have sung songs for you, on the triad steps you stand,
Perfect in the eyes of men, and in me a seraph, yet my impatience climbs those steps,
grasping at the subtlety of your stares.

For you I would stand alone, watching without a care,
wondering, and wandering the earth, lying with some woman, deaf to her heart
that beats like yours, and only yours

Simple condemnation breathes into my neck,
through my lungs, and from my breast
curled into the center, emanating vibrant
warmth of the hidden fire consolation from my face;

I know that you are the mystic heart,
sent to consent my transcendental start  
in life as in death, and in death as in pre-life
to discover the mystery of our mystery.

In this dark chamber, I am brilliant and cold,
vibrantly awaiting the moment when I'm told
that there is no reason, to be worried, to be scared,
that time has met its end, and space has been prepared;
for freedom dangles at the doorstep, a wedge of mistletoe
waiting, perfectly opposing, for our eyes to meet and know
that love is beyond the darkness of self and season,
beyond the charms that mock the right of reason,
and beyond the tides that bring forth treasures-
from lands beyond effulgent minds and measures.  


In this dark chamber, the world is but a mystery
unfolding before the eyes of dawn, and misery,
pretend victim of the thorns of love and life
stands as a messenger of the sacred knife,
to sacrifice the comfort of this ****** confines
and transcend into the heart, the center where he finds
the truth, the sun, the mystic heart, and yields
standing humble, arrogant, in Elysian fields
beyond imagination, beyond the darkness held,
a world beyond the mystery, where everything has meld.

Cans of fresh Bear, stockings of the last line: arctic affair;
blue, white, a hint of green and grey.
  Marbles rolling off cool ice infinity.
Fellows, the pillows petals fall as marshmallows to our ******* mouths;
devotion to the holy ****
the holy sacrament:
arctic affair...