Dark Window xx.xx.011

Death stares out from inside of me.
My eyes are black beams;
heat- and life-seeking missiles.
I am the grim reaper.

And the Dark Window is watching me again.
It peers into me, now-- and I am powerless to resist.
It stalks me in my dreams.

I see only myself and the candle by my side.
Not a bit else reflects.
The Window will not let me leave.

Everywhere else:
I see a face.

Tree Limb xx.xx.011

I cut the tree, limb from limb and I think about the line (is there a line?) between life and death. I strip one of the large limbs of its bark, admiring the eerie glow-- pale white, like bone. The limb is heavy; naked; bare. Its length is coated in slippery sap, and I am reminded of blood. I have just killed, yet the line between death and life could not be more unclear. Beneath my fingertips, living cells are rushing towards some end (sentient, or no?) . . .

31.5.014 Vignette/ Universe Bubble (WIP)

Amidst the scent of lilacs,
And a euphoric trilling of birds:
Beneath a swirling ceiling fan,
I fell into another world
Only to dream of you.

In the heady high of anticipation,
There was found a dream encased in glass;
A unicursal curve unfurling;
A genuine, immaculate coupling;
Gentle chorus of lovesick moans;
Delicate show of soft toes curling.

31.12.013 New Year

And so I begin again, surer of my footing:
my one path is direct through the hearts of the loving.

The Wife Forgave the Mistress 20.04.014

The languid haze of two maidens has me lounging in the sun's ray.
Golden tones have befallen
the tiny space in which I lay:
two warmths fill me--

from Inside, and Out.

The first are images of a gilt God
beside me in every conceivable way:
a companion-- a man-- filling my ears with a trickle of secrets

(cool, like the water that goes dripping
from hardened rock-face-- glacier-carved
in Agony, in Ache--
to mirror-waters:
still, immovable, deep)

which burn as they're ejected, yet become cool again
as their heat disperses into open air.

If fire and water cannot mix, then maybe

(at least)

I can deal with the heat of magma turning constantly.

Are you me?  Am I him?
Silver tears will erode the Earth; Salt will keep it barren.
The second warmth

(as I sense the magma beneath the surface):

the languid haze of two maidens, as I lounge in the sun's ray.

Paulio (So?) 27.3.014

So what if I want you in my life
(but have no idea who you are)?
So what if I choose my words so carefully--
but have no idea what they mean
(as the Tennessee Honey metabolizes)--

elected selectively, as hairs plucked
from a maniacal trichster's scalp?

(So what.)

So what if I play mind-games with myself?
Will you play with me (will you hold me,
will you entertain me [these fantasies],
will you reciprocate my hands' healing measures)?

No.  No, you will not.

So why do I want this?

Because I have shown you new things;
I have brought something
to your table
(and you say your food [the act
of cooking]
is Love-- and I know it to be true) . . .

So what if I sit here pondering,
mired
in the Nothing
that is the displacement between You,
and Him
(and really, there are no Others),
and all of the rest who have come before;

so what if I spin around and

(round, glassy eyes)

around inside my head; so what
if the Tennessee Honey
(metabolized, metastasized
[what has metastasized in me, has it come down from {the other} Him--
my Elder--
whose flesh bears no relation {but that of marriage
and chosen family?}]
fully, marching onward)

might soon bring the room to spinning?

Is any of this less true?

Where
and/or
who
are We?

Is there really any meaning (I need it I need it I need it), or
are these the mind-games of which you speak?

If every exhalation and exaltation (upon your entering [into me])
sees the departure of countless bits of matter particulate
(molecule, atom, proton neutron electron and so on)
which have comprised both stars and God Incarnate,

then why must No Meaning be found in between
the spaces nullified by our mutual embrace?

What have you to say?

So?

What have you to say?

28.1.014 An open letter: the Point of Singularity to the Void

After ten months, there was a response; the Void shouted back-- in a muted voice, just barely audible: "Hi".

I still love you.  I never stopped, even though the letter I sent said I did.  When love shifts phases from "mutual" to "unrequited," an imbalance occurs; I became the parabolic curve infinitely approaching Zero.

There is a sort of base-level Love-- call it Respect, perhaps-- which should be extended to all living beings.  Whether or not the "human" or "sentient" sub-category of living beings deserves a special sort of respect or love is debatable, and it is a subject I have not yet examined fully.  Regardless: you-- the Void-- are human, and are therefore living, and are therefore deserving of a base-level Love and/or Respect.

There was a time when I loved you in a special, remarkable way.  I have been led to believe that there was a time when you, too, loved me in a special and remarkable way.  Whether it was a conscious decision or not, something in your being chose to put an end to that golden period of time.  Another part of your being chose to send this information across a great Void-- encrypted as ones and zeros (everything and nothing; wholeness and emptiness; singularity and a void of said)-- in a parabolic sine wave which lasted for four sentient, human minutes and twenty sentient, human seconds.

And when you gaze long into a Void, the Void also gazes into you.

Humility 24.1.014

The sound of my own voice used to make my face burn.
An outsider's perspective imposed

upon my own eyes
(the unforgiving camera lens,

revealing to me

the already-plain-to-see)

would make me feel sick;
I was my own greatest enemy;

my biggest critic.

I am still that same person.

Though I've grown, though
I've peeled away so dutifully

every internal-and-external
imposition restricting me,

I am still that same person--

and, God damnit, I always will be.

Fuck.

I hope to whatever Gods may be

that the prying camera eye
exists somewhere inside your own head;

that your actions

have been made plain

(that you have been flayed,
laid bare [for the World to see])

in some sick display meant solely
for those beheld gemstone irises of yours.

Meditations (on a walk along Loma Larga, Corrales, NM) 11.3.014

Plucked from the sacred soil-- loose underfoot-- whence they came, the stones must surely lose their luster.  Taken to lands far and away, their light goes out slowly-- ebbing daily-- until nothing but husks like bones remain.

Friday Mornings/ Lovingkindness

A ringing of the bell, and I was inside.
A golden retriever to greet me: eyes alight,
flaring nostrils on a cold nose sipping the air.
New smells, well-learned tricks--

a loving obedience.

You fed me. You poured drinks.
The rear door slid open, and you led
me to your garden. In a place whence
you'd once been culled, you showed me things growing--

a loving patience.

We lingered in what light could reach us----
branches burgeoning, new green, warmed skin
(yours much nuttier than mine: pale, fair).
I close my eyes and I still hear birds--

a loving singsong.

----and soon, slowly, we wandered back in.
Undress. Embrace. We smelled like men.
I tried to assuage your every ache. Did I? Tell me:
you whimpered into my mouth as you came.

Like the night I caught you watching:
tell me, do you remember that too?
I close my eyes and I still hear the din;
Your gaze, that look, from across the room:

a gem in my head (hebephrenic, deleterious).

18.2.014 Jiva, to Room, on the eve of the Eve of Leaving

I have put pieces of my Self in here:
there is a toxin
within
me-- coursing, piercing
as we speak.
(My pupils are huge; I am so in love.)

Soon, I am to leave.

For eleven years (this June)
you have absorbed me;
there are pieces of me in you: floating.

Whatever psychic resonance that's in me,
I hope to leave a memory
within these walls, painted (but loved,
and Oh! how you were ador[n]ed)
so tritely.

I never meant to scar you with such secrets--
and now, on the eve of my Leaving, they're no longer a blight to me;
hold tight, if some semblance is to be left remaining.

My vision flutters.

And in between the sharp bursts of New Light:
the Old Nothing.

(no Being.)