I knew once you had the chance, you’d take it
So I bottled up my sadness in pride and manhood
In the hope that one-day you’d come and change me
But that day never came; I’m still on the ropes
Where the days are still and my hopes are changed
Your smell is still on my mind, and the feel of your clothes
Every moment is the last; every memory is calling

There was a time when the phone rang, and it was you
Those moments were the light of what I knew
I held them dear once, but I know the truth now

All known things are meaningless in time
My death will bring the swift end to what I consider life
--security and the wonderful warmth of such—
The relationships I held so dear were nothing
Because they were between untrue self idols
I know this now, and I realize that unless we hold no
Imagination
Human beings will have no relationship

Let go of “self” to be self
Feel for another and not for security
(The ubiquitous trade)
Know another and not the image constructed
Find no comfort in me—that’s my job—
Love me and not your imagination
Know me and not your imagination

For so long we’ve been playing as puppeteers
Our false images make fumbled motions as we watch behind curtains
Come out and meet me and I will meet you
And we will share movements that no strings can orchestrate

Trysts of beached
          and branchless relationships
               have led my mind to call the    
tides insecurity for truth,
        but this old jug of liquid fire is melting glass
                  so I think my craw needs a-wait f’r a-asking for.
       When I get the slur off my tong,
          the day will be done
And what happens tonight’s gonna kick my *** ‘til Tuesday.
                                              Goodbye worries;
                             I hope to see you in hell on Wednesday.    

                                  Let me sleep,
                                     or my dreams
                                         will explode  
                                             into reality.
                                                  Please.

love I not your lips, but the words that you say
With wit and a candor we think much the same
love I not your eyes, but the way that you stare
True silence be met with the turbulent pair
love I not your cheeks, but the way which you smile
Your carefree laughing hides status the wile  
love I not your hands, but the way that you touch
Warm, temperate passion fills my body with much  
love I not your charms, but the spirit you contain  
A beauty of all life in one woman such sustain

I would plunge into you and taste your waters.
I your pacific shores...

Sands conform,
waves wax and wane;

Be as the sunset burns,
behind rows of blackened ferns

Sway across the summer dunes
I see your eyes, they are sun and moon.

Green cascading from the smooth curves of her hips—
unmoving—of velvet flowers that I approach.
Silken, they are; and with balm applied I kiss her lips.
Wandering to discover Eden, without reproach,
hands and eyes journey together, seeking
what pleasure, what ecstasy, delight  
the texture of her soft skin returns to me, peaking,
I am only hers tonight.

And yet the sun is not in keeping
with the children of her Eden shores,
swallowed up by her catlike creeping,  
why side to side, like waves of joy
crashing in curves of green velvet cascading.

Eyes ablaze, yet shoulders coy
her stare implodes my chest, inflating  
waves of rapture, collapse, and drown me so
I am but a child of sudden, timid choice.
Why her eyes that say come hither, come slow,
that motion stills and vibrates with her voice,
yet I am a silent caress that goes
up and down her thigh intending, from her waist
to her lips; I am not a fool to woes
nor a child to her eyes unchaste.

Lo! Reflections of the crescent moon,
the night unfolded like dreams hidden behind her eyes
that call “lover,” to me soon
I know, and yet cannot impede reprise
for she is the sun that draws me out,
and I am the seed that sprouts ***** before her.

Choiceless and unaware of clout
hiding nothing as if nothing were
the object of my affections streaming
from the fingers stroking down my chest,
to lips that pucker open, and to her eyes, beaming
shatter the gray of storm and jest
that by the sounds of thunder repeating
could not find meaning in the apparatus of her smile
nor the significance of her heart.

Yet still I search beyond the mile
to understand what plays its part.
The answer must lie at dusk
between the hours sweet and bitter, which have no time,
but smell like musk
and whispers softly in sweet and gentle rhyme.

You, that flower barely blooming; I bear thy pollination.
It is my purpose solely to cause the fruit of thy creation.

Nano art, my pantheism is objective idealism. God is in the details:
the stamen, the leaf… all is fractal, some charmingly chaotic,

All scenery composed, each part of reality is a representation;
a word of the language of reality in her garden.

Her voice is sweet like the honey suckles. Pale like her petals.
All a play, a dance, a game to the night and the sun, and to all her beloved travelers.

And while I watch her, this star behind moon and trees, behind all that I see;
behind my very being. Reality, her character is through and through me.

And in the act of creation, flower and I are as her representations,
There is no thought to our most profound desires.

Innate will to live; our mother is the essence.
Death and life are her androgyny displayed