spirits

spirits

We have lived and loved
from the privacy of our reserve,
               that reactive space
               just above the surface.
We inhabit the physical place
but abide by the passions
that govern ancient spirits
               afar.

In the playground of the knowers,
the lovers, the givers;
we are creators,
the authors of life,
               monkey-barred minds
               and sea-sawed hearts
               with sandy-floored souls.

Fueled by sensation,
we are those to whom
fear is only a myth,
               a story told by
               the Others.

Photograph by Gia. Vindhyachal, India

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Soul Fluid

Soul Fluid

I wake up to you, my everymorning brew,
the image of your heated arms.
I tumble into sleep for you, my eternalnight pacifier.
I thirst for you, my essential soul fluid.

I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour your love
each and every precious moment I am granted,
for your presence to enlighten,
handfeed my creative pony.

My mane obscures your process,
keeping it behind stained glass
and just distanced enough
to satiate my always illusion of not knowing.
You substantiate my essential mythology,
giving of your ashes as fuel
with your purpose.

I meditate upon you
that is, to God, to the surrender of the universe
and all that is my truth beauty, that is ours,
and which is sought for by all,
and naught to be attained.
It cannot be, in living or dying;
the oneness of us it not to be understood,
but to be cherished, by all that is good.

It is in simplicity that I love you.
The only way that I can.
More and more through every molecule.

Feign acquiesce
for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour.

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

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the elixir

the elixir

Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.

 

June 2003

 

Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke

 

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You

You

You speak in euphemisms of your own making,
rattling off sycophantic truths in tongues
and ostracizing the periphery along the way
as they patter all over your sapient misnomers.
But I am caught in the know;
seeing the ice castle worlds that inhabit your mind.
I slide down them with mirth in me,
exalting in the cool sweat left
glistening along slick, bare flesh.

Your genius coming drips down the length
of my backside,
sloping into refreshing flux.
Lashed by your mindscape
I am outstretched, as on the rack.
Spread onto the clammy wall,
with such heat that fuses flesh into plaster
skinned and pink jaws of cheek and ear
just as envisioned, mollified with matter.

The obsessive tension of possession
famines my overextended knuckles,
reddening ravenous tips
clawing and bleeding into solid with desire.

A breath already drawn and stuck
laxens my mouth into dripping lips
with supple anticipation.
Your gaze is riveted to me
undistracted by the throb of predestination
flaring in your loins.

You remain unimpressed, a pacing pragmatism
reeling in explosive coolness,
polarizing this blinded beauty from behind.
To struggle is to surrender.
For you are already behind me
spreading fire through my limbs.

At once catalyzing my lascivious circuitry
with syncopated breaths, cogent grip
over my quivering synapses. Solid in waiting,
suspended sanguine, until you come,
convulsing in contradictory convictions,
the Marquis himself never inspired 
such
wicked devotion.

 

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meditation on a brazil nut

meditation on a brazil nut

The starkness of a chestnut glazed table
willing to stare back at me with a dare.
It challenges with a static potential,
that which only a table can muster.
I cannot be envious of that.
But I do envy that on it sits a brazil nut
contoured by shadow.
A brazil nut that
too may desire purpose.
If it could,
if it were not
just a legume.

I being more than a nut,
or at the very least
greater than or equal to,
do percolate with such desire.

But lying here, wrapped in chenille and scarves
find the realization of my purpose
much further off than the arm’s length
fulfillment of our artless brazil nut’s fate.
If I do extend my non-hungry palm
I will eat the nut, for the sake of Brazil.
I might.

But instead, as accustomed to,
I will not force purpose into my palm.
Thus, I continue to sit.
Encloaked less by blanket
than by denial.

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blacklisted



blacklisted



Stubborn orifices of steel block my vision.
I am tapped;
though malignantly, not dripping.
Cosmic joke.
Clots of core being
surge out of my system,
lumping my cauliflower veins with yesterday
and liquefying said obstructions tomorrow.
In this fashion,
my core self has been leaving me
alone, hardly breathing
in a mire of self-pity.
My soul, I fear, now clumps,
petrified by judgment
and withering into tumors of former ambition.
It remains imprisoned by my frenzied ego
who’s encrusted by the fear that simmers with
the rite of internal suicide.
Jump.

image by Gia, faces in a wood door at Alchemical Studios

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