I'm trying to stay alive long enough
to get the words out..
the words your broken soul
has been longing to hear..

the shift, that will provide
                             the offset

Not as if, an undoing of the trauma
or an explanation as to why
this whole ****** up world
is as ****** up as it is

but instead

ones that will  show you
that it all has been worthwhile--
That the pain  that you carry
will find a place--

and you will no longer have to  be
so all alone


I am failing, my beautiful..

and I am dying
in all of my inability
to say to you  (and those like you)

what it is I have been built (from day-one)

.
.
.
.
.


to say.

This feels like  what it feels like
every-time I come back,   yet
I can't  even remember the name

I used when we last spoke.  Funny
that I can feel you in this everso
surreal fog, tho.

    I could find you anywhere.

Change each time,  I
must-- in order to keep myself
from being stolen.

You know how that feels.

That is how I find you--

                          by feel

Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)

One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.

Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.

There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..

the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..

--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.


****.

eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.

Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.

And when he opened  the word, written:
it said that God would give him
   the greatest gift--

which was God, himself

And immediately he succumbed,  to the pressure
of Love's great purge

Bringing to the world;  all,
       the greatest gift  of all--

                   his own demise

It is through the pathological:
The presented image of the journey
as being that of the road, less traveled--
a foundation of sand,  presented
as being that of bedrock..
It is the ancient shortcut's  need
to prop up it's own deception
that is of that which harbors  the greatest judgement
        of all that is upright
and it is upon these agenda-ed, subjective pallettes
that the pastels are mixed and arranged,

as the landscape of the world's reality
becomes,  painted.

... And the skin opened up  into wide, cavernous cracks..
and there was a hissing sound--     a burning smell..
                               not unlike that  of a calf-branding  
on an everyday, working  South Dakota cattle ranch--

The feathering smoke, curling around the ancient stubs
                              of that which is  as of yet,  de-horned.
And there was a raging scream--
yet, one almost as if harmononiously intertwined
with the guttural moans of a pleasure-chant:
    that which is borne.. not of victimization,
               but of deep, consensual agreement

   And,  against this kind of liaison  between
flesh and death,  all the power of love's ache
becomes   a l m o s t   as if  nothing other
than a whisper...  

                          almost.

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie
drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
the windborne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition
and throughout aeons, of forming
and unforming within the wild
brutal winds:  grinding, pulverizing
granite, back down to pebble
majestic prairie, back in to sand..
and then, back down  into
windblown silt

now circling around the feet of a child,
(one that pokes at dead things  with a stick)

But within the silt, are the pebbles
and so, down on her knees  she forms
a pile with her hands.. an ancient burial mound,
stands up, and with a clap of her
little hands, wipes a millenia of dust away
stick, tucked under arm-- she walks away:

as silt-covered pebble, become  once again

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie

Drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
(the wind borne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition....)

Untethered at times
but, only in short
spurts do you sprint.

I see you,  grazing the
sweetgrass-edges, green and lush;
such a perfect circle
you carve--

Peg, spiked in dry dirt;
the clanking hobble, has you
starved.

Dragging chain, uprooting succulents
scraping bare the dry ground
while beautiful, unfenced;  is
the grassland-  all around

You were built to be wild, love..  

    Wild.

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self-- apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from  a n y
attachment to glory
and so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete
in its utter incompleteness.
~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.
~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.
But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
   torn from us
(as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place) ..
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~
You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment
your usury
your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits--
a   d i s m e m b e r i ng
making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.

We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.
And then you'll be the one
who will be ******.
******

And you ask me why I have cared for so very long..
why I love you the way that I do--
down on the floor, (arms raised  like a little child)
asking me to hold you. <3

And late at night,  fully spent
from the amount of work that it takes
      just,  to survive another day, trying.   crying
      on the edge of the bed, (arms raised  like a little child)

      wanting me to help you put those warm,
                                            flannel-jammies on.


When your heart barely beats anymore  its
own life-giving pulse,  and your lungs are no longer able to find air
      You turn towards me,
      and ask me to breathe in to you--


                                         arms raised.. 

                  like a beautiful, little child.

Lofty words, spoken;  as if, as if;
and no doubt, I'll burn for it all.. I'm sure.
A conniving-mind--
filled with agenda.. oh, I'm sure
And  if there is a stone  that
needs to be thrown first,  then here--
take it, my love.. and cast away,
my little castaway.

Now villified,  I can   finally
be sent back to hell--
back to where I've always belonged,
because.. no doubt, everything I've ever done
has only been self-serving.

Everything--
    I'm sure of it.

It was somewhere  between
her third and forth ******
when the wall, came down;
a wall  she didn't even know existed--

                   A wall, that is,
    until love came to town.

And so it is,  within the pleasurable;
   when mixed with pain,  
   in certain moments;   
becomes,  quite obtainably
the death, of death..

within the loving-kindness
         of things known, anally--

        (the tenderness of a back-door man
        is a righteousness, all it's own),
        as  it is the intentions of the heart
        that brings one  closest,
        to that   of kingdom, come.

And yet.. an angelic, front-pew voice
   singing praise
   when heart-- unchecked,

can become a clanging sound, unholy;
drowned out, by the passion-screams
of the one,  once-bound--

        but now,  breaking free.
        (a truly righteous sound in Heaven,  indeed..)

        --and Love,  Love,  Love;
        is rarely what we think it otta be.
        (or maybe, there is a heretical-hell
        waiting- for those  just like me.)

But if what passes itself off as life,
is actually Life, indeed    
                 then I choose hell, (yes. again, indeed).
And if heaven, for most.. is nothing, but a crutch
I'll choose death, over death, every ****** time..

                                           thank-you-very-much.

To lay hold of this faith,  
    this belief
this full-on embrace  
of the wholly absurd
This follow.. this path--
solely based  on-whisper, heard?

You can come back out, now
back, out.. into the light of day, now:
my love is either heaven-sent,
or completely   p l u n g e d  
into the insanest meaning  
                             of the word

and I really don't even care anymore
if it is the first
                 the second..

    or  the unspeakable, third

Don't speak directly to her--
you will melt the skin  off
     her bone-frame

Instead,  find parallel-words--

ones that will  float alongside her
as she walks,  so as she is able-
she can pluck them--  like
wild roses  alongside the highway

Sometimes, love takes a
   tremendous
amount of creativity--

the name of the game is
    its destination..
not  the control of its path

This vitreous, aquification..
this, "From Frodo, to Mordor"
cerebral, disordor..

      A residency of non-clemency--
An accusatorially-painted,
caged stage,   of universal-rage;
This room with a view
                   is killing me.

Day turns to night
and what once,  was not-thought right


      is now the only thing, 
            that is healing me.

Those things that you wrote back then, they came from the
wild-one, still in chains. She is beautiful, but the only relationship
she has known until now has been that of the pathological.
All she wants to do is be known, to be loved for who she is--
passionate, wildly wanting to become unbound, to become loved

                                                          ­                    for the first time ever.

She remains dormant, yet speaks louder
and more powerfully than anything else that is within you.

But she is kept in the dark--  out of fear..   shame,
and out of having absolutely no experience or idea whatsoever
in how to become known in any healthy, loving kind of way at all.
So she stays there--  inside of you,  in the dark--
unknown, unloved (within in her own self-view)...
fully wrapped in chains..
fully imprisoned by all that will never be able to understand,
or ever have the capacity to know.

I come to her almost every night, in hopes that love
(and the incredible crave that I feel for her),
will one evening become able to coax her out, in to the light of day.
She is wild, babe.. yes...
but she also loves you enough to be able to submit to you.

She is so very, very beautiful.
I hope one day to finally have the chance to meet her.

Within the  peace  that comes

  from a very,  Loved place;
there is an un-settling..

And, into what once felt secure
there enters a disturbance..
(a dark,  unholy-meddling)

((Yet, the painful growth that chaos
brings,  pierces the form of security
this fear-filled world is peddling.))

Feeling betrayed,  she now wants to run
    but  instead,  believes..


                      ..And,  against all odds:
         she draws from the love of God
               in order  to help protect her

                from the very love,  of God.

Pain.. when left alone to just be pain;
and trying to heal from that place, without giving hope to others
the way that you do so beautifully when you write the way you do..

It all becomes such a loneliness, when unshared.

And your opening up in that beautiful and gorgeous way that you do--
it is a wonderful example (both to, and for) so many who are still
tightly bound within the pain of it all, never knowing that the
reaching for hope is so very worthy of their time and energy:  
both,  desperately needed

in order to become able to press through the shame;
in order to just be able to hold on.

Never more gorgeous and **** you are to men like me--
when you glow that way..
as a beacon of light to those who were ones bound so very tightly,
within the injustice of all that was so unfairly laid upon them--  
                                                        ­ just as it also was with you.
And,
your healing and perseverance, in your movement towards strength,
again, is opening doors for many--
there is no doubt in my mind, of that very truth:

Something deep and beautiful happens inside of me, and those like me
when I see ones like you do that beautiful thing that you do out there.
Wild thoughts come to the surface-- of mouth, pressed to mouth,
and gentle (and the not so overly gentle) removing of clothes-- in a
not so very un-fast pace.. in the deep need to so very quickly know,
between brightly-glowing bodies;
that wonderful feeling of skin on skin. Really. xo

And, though innocent in your use of it, and unbeknownst to you,
there is a conniving and scheming within it that bypasses all of the
filters of my heart, and enters directly into desire's  unbridled
and untamed world--

the one that always is brewing within me, subsurface.

Leave it to the gorgeous wild-ones such as yourself to bring that
part of me out into the light of day-- where I can barely manage it.
The thought of ever being alone with ones like you at night, brings
about such a wonderful,  
exploding  eruption of warm, lava flow..

even within itself.
True story, babe. xo

Apart from the pathological,
there are divine moments  of saving--

A diving catch of the heart, if you will..
a defibrillation,  through either words,  
or action:

A restoration back into normal heart-rhythm..
the causing of a heartbeat-race
(to the point of nearly burst)
a jump-start, if you will
(a poetically-induced, mouth-to-mouth, resuscitation)..

This inclination  towards  incantation--
the one, nearly feverishly-spoken..
into all things, caged..
into all things, bound.

There is a ship-- set somewhat,sail
on ocean;  turbulent,
yet not quite, ghosted.

There is a wind that will always remain
for those,  who's sole(soul)-choice

                          is to but   inhabit.

Ambushed..
yeah, just like that.

Heart-lit, little star-glows,  holding
all of the universe in their  young,
galaxy-dust  laden hands
changing, an until-now-thought
predestined plan..

launched, at me like love-laced
little mortar rounds,  sent by
something.. all-too-sneaky, maternal--  

lips, oh my goodness..
      this is all so very unfair.

And all I wanted to do is just leave.
and all I wanted to do  is just sneak away,  unloved.
Maybe in the next life,
though,  I doubt it--

those angels that she talks to..
      they are as sneaky as she is

Sorry, about....

how much  I
completely come--   a l l
              over myself;
the ceiling,  the window-blinds..  

the neighbor's cat..
walking  across the street

every single night, my love.
(true story)

..And his head went through
the windshield,
his grey-matter splatter,  a
             sacrificial-musing:

Leading  to the wonderful
presentation
        of the ideal,
giving  all  the  world  

permission, 
to now, fully feel

providing the access for all
to now   fully heal
through all things  {real}..

borne,  from the ideal.

And when she had
e x p e r i e n c e d   each part
   of herself--

in each part-
a healing

each part-
its newfound expression

each part-
finally comfortable
with the other parts
   of who she is--

when the sum of the whole
in itself became whole

   then she became whole.

And I
no longer needed
to go so many  d i f f e r e n t
places

or press my face
to so many different
faces

just so that  I
might find her.

My relational cat
shows up  for a chat
oh, of course-- and
some food:   with
few ***** to give--
      but it's all good

    Or few-***** it seems.

The kee  I-thot
to be a self-centered snot
has turned out to be
the kee of-my dreams.

I can understand  kitty
kitty kitty kitty;  and
I can now  see
that it's me
that's been ******
****** ****** ******--  or
so it seems.

        Or so it seems.

When I think
that I'm bad--  or
have-given all
that I-had--  kee
somehow finds a way
to show me--
         I'm the man
         of her dreams.

Kitty kitty kitty kee.
kitty kitty

The strongholds and fortresses within you
that have for so long, kept you apart  from
the healing has been waiting for you,
all along..
--even they have been longing for a love
that was strong enough,
unafraid enough, and fierce enough

to dismantle their intricate, inner workings..

Because,  even the fortresses  themselves
want to know what it is that real love feels like.
And stubborn and well-fortified, that they are--

    eventually even they bow down  on one knee,
                   to the fullness of love's true nature.

And so, that which once did all it could
to keep you away from the very thing
you needed most;   once disarmed,

would then become,  through your spirit's metabolizing
of it's at one time consolidated fragments,
love's  greatest  advocate.


I could just smile, and cover you
with smoothe words..

         but that would not be love;

 just the perpetuation of the same old  emptiness--
     the one that first did the  ****, so many years ago

And it is again, within the dismantling process
that the greatest desire for the ****,  
becomes manifest--
and I can either, attempt to completely destroy
your will to live, once the fortress comes down

or bless you with love's tenderness  until
you can become completely rebuilt

And you..

Half dismantled,  the fortress-- still powerful,
can acquiesce both your heart and spirit
into an indentured servitude;

Hell-bent, on the destruction of all things, life-borne.


Or we can both allow love to help us,  each  
choose  to let go of the evil-impulse,
and allow it's unholy nature  

to become absorbed  into all things, loving;
into all things, beautiful.

Those beautiful eyes--
they wont stop looking at me
and they never stop  believing in me

I swear to Christ, I ****** hate her
My contempt-filled, trauma-built fortress of distrust  
is systematically becoming  dismantled

raw;  pure..   love,  is such a sneaky little ******

And its unfettered, magical-wizardry  is now
putting my central core at risk--
     the fear of annihilation
     is one truly ****** up hell

     a ******* horror  beyond all horrors.


She is still looking at me with
               that love  in her eyes.


                Now I really hate her.

Heading up  into
the unspoken--  a
spirit,  as of yet
unbroken;

   she needs to be there.

Undefined; undisclosed
with no-thing  presupposed

I bring my  I
(she says)

fly,  said her
  I...
and into  the
   sky
she did fly--

fully-clothed
yet, sacred-robed
she was going somewhere
as of yet
         un-probed.

Is there any way to  dress
for a place  like that?
And when you get there
would it matter  anyways?

Back down to the ground;
white tank top and *******-on--

                                      perfect.

God­-ordained   but
no one 'splained

the effect  this smokin-view
would have on me--

  heh,
And she brought  that
  Love-scent
back down with her
       from  the   N e x t p l a c e


               .. and Im as high
                       as a man can be.

This bridge is faulty
there is dry-rot  taunting
    the girders
Its spandrels:
all knobby-kneed..
  Its pseudo-elaborate  trusswork,
    as if   designed  
    by a lonely drunk

It's pilings..  questionable
Its deckwork, treacherous.

    Its abutment--
    aw,  **** me..   

    its crumbling.
.  .  

If we cross over  
under the lie of darkness
we won't be so afraid..

     But these structural-flaws,
     when revealed  by the sun
     are so incredibly intriguing.


  Let's take that step
  and see if it holds us.

Sometimes, the pressure is so bad..
       on the spiritual-shift,
that it feels as though I am right on the edge,  
       about to crumble--

as if all  of Hell
is going to pull my soul and spirit  
       down  in to  it

an "un-willing" descension;  
dragged down, in full ****** form
                    .   .   .

There is a death down there,
        a life-swallowing horror--

My destruction, waits for me there
  There are poor, broken-ones there
unfairly  

     held against their will,  there.

I shudder as I think of the doom--
the retribution that awaits me
for anything..   for everything  
I have done  
that has dinged
his all holiness,  
the one on the throne here--

the deceptive-one,  
the hidden agenda,   acquiesced..

     the  f oo ler  of us all..  
                                (the ******.)



but, then  I smile to myself;

.. and then,    I can't stop smiling.

--the angry inch, always speaks the truth.

They take into themselves,  living water
from the vine strip that love brought to them  from
the canopy's Gathering--
from the passing storm of the lair, in Stratus

And behold, they are unafraid,  
     these thirsty-ones--

these cohesively-vibrating, pre-feathered cygnets
these illustrious,  winged smolts-- 

                              stream-drawn,     
              ­              ocean spawned.

Their wings: give flight?    No, not quite;
(though for an eternity  they have flown.)

And ever since love,   its been known
ever evolving,   they are..
         yet never  fully grown--

The Living water
keeps them stretching,   reaching..
yearning,  for  a  wind

that will give their hearts a home,
seed-sown.

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

On the streets of gold,  forgiven
by the skin of his teeth, maybe.

On here; on Earth--
stuffed in a corner
Bloodied.. trundled, fondled
wearing his sin--

(his unholy,
carcinogenic/pathogen).

And I,  I want to go to heaven..?
I would **** you, everyday
You self-serving *******,   now forgiven

I will take hell, you ****

She is still down here
and so, here.. on earth (and below) 
will become my heaven.

And I will become like you
and I will wear your pelts of perpetration
     and I will be hated for it
but there will be healing in the land
    because I am not  of you
nor am I of those who continue to do  

what it is that you have done

May the heaven you have entered into,
fully forgiven..   fully 'healed'
    become your hell

  through all things revealed

You felt nothing then
and you feel nothing now
But soon, you ****.. you will feel
I promise you  that  you will feel..

There is a darkness, even in heaven

You have a foundation that you can feel now--
          its load-points, bearing directly  on top

                                    of Love's firm bedrock.


Whatever  you want to become on top of that
    is  whatever  you  believe   your loved core
    is  worthy    of being built in to  (becoming).

I see you staring off into space,  your trajectory
aimed towards a specifically-patterned constellation.
I am only the launch tower--
providing stability, support
aiding in your refueling  and the replenishment of your supplies.
Star-patterned destinations are your calling
and, I am just the launch pad,  
and its ever accommodating tower.

They say that a rocket expends fifty
percent of its energy just clearing the tower;
It is the final destination:  
not the clearing of the tower,
that your heart needs most
and holding you firm,  I know that as you lift off
I will  even now  be tempted to
reach out with one of my ever-sustaining arms..
that I may touch your gorgeous tail section  
as you fly clear of me

But even in the doing of that,  
I would change your trajectory
and the constellations would never come to know you
nor you, them

I am just a tower, love..
a platform,  constructed solely  
to aid you in your newfound flight into freedom:
a tower  to love you
and hold you steady,  
with a finely-built strength

until you are finally clear
even,  of me.

--it is,  how very
tremendously cute you are,
and how your little stinkerlings
climb all over me;  their
trusting little Spirits drinking in all things, Daddy

And within you, dwells  all of the
fullness of their childlike hope, ******
And within them dwells hope's fire--
aflame within each little set of eye's
sparkle

Yet, beautiful Mommy--

There is a brutality, embedded deeply into
God's Love
that all but compels me to call you out
on almost seemingly-random things:
things that push up (almost fiercely)
against all things within you, stubborn
but they benefit..

                       they benefit.

And you fight against me-- even to your own detriment,
and I am reminded  then of the same fight shown--  emanating
from a young,  forming child's spirit:


           "No"   is the first word that should
                                          form freely
            within the mouth of a young spirit,
                                    aching deeply...

           within the depths  of the loved self
           for the true meaning of the word,  

                                           Autonomy.

An­d there is no loss  of love
in their little movements  towards separateness

And there is no price to pay for speaking the truth in love
nor, is there a payment owed, for speaking it  in defiance
and separateness, even to the point of  eventual separation
need never have to come at the cost of love--

the truly-loved, freely formed, self
is a beautiful, magical thing to behold, indeed.


And your participation in to it all, little-one's sweet Mommy

is a celebration in itself.

Onto a crumpled, weathered parchment
he bleeds out  his love for her

And she,  in turn
finds words,  that wax poetic

Flowery words.  pretty words

Words that rhyme,
quarter tones of time

Flowers, hearts, peer-laden smiles
lined up-- all, in a pretty little line

There is a spattered blood,
on tattered parchment,   still

and, still..  no less mine