in the end does it matter
does it matter
does it matter
does it matter a hundred ways to ask the same
does it matter sips of coffee summer rain
does it matter hero’s journey in a box with a cat in the rain with a hat all the same

digging nightmares up to re-quell the same
some pain some names some little hundred fucking shames

under serious consequence we lose the name
the names of heroes and architects that taught us to refrain
from the joys and pains of sin and shame
from the heirs of torture and summer rain

heck! no wonder we refrain from all the little hurricanes
that come up and under hero’s way
just to still the heart away

just to wish your soul to sleep
just to whisk your eyes to shame

does it matter what we did if sins and shames all wisp away
does it matter in the end if sorrows mount forever and

does it linger a little longer in the bosom of the beast
if we let it simmer on our skin will it singe a ring of sin
will it have us hold our little fingers all twisted in
or will it let the sinner linger once all its hopes of heaven quench
little bubblies in a thin elastic skin all rumbly in my tumbly without morale or consequence

bounce and pop and piss all on parade ignite the tumult please again
does it matter when it matters
let it matter when it matters
let it linger when it lingers and whisk the yoke of cloudy eyes
little demons in the morning
little seasons through the summer
little windows a mind to wander
little whispers hearts to wonder  – whether
enough will really be
or if the sun could ever really just
enough, just right
to let our heavy heads release just like
little sprinkles to the sky

In the end a little light may be all
We can hope –
A little devil in it
‘s miscalculated throws

Little candle left lit – you’re out –
Mask or make – just a smell we smell instead
a risk to take the house – the whole house

A very little light
Wanes in and out
flicks swing to
catalyze a …
a thread we pull insisting it pull
On some shadowy soul

i want to scream the world in order
a dead neck to loose the head
to turn toward our first history
then forever after death

and through rubble a thousand years settled
I’d let it out
first little diamonds then a blistering curse
unbending what we made to be “curved”
un-curing what they meant to be cured

like god I’d speak my way into being
nvm scream, I’d scream to make it clear
no doubt could be excused
no curse would be excess
every judge under me [assimilate]
to the only mind I trust
the only key I have

Am I gonna die like this still
holding out
to give my limbs to
actualize a desire that love’s alchemy would not bewilder me for

what could I exchange for
that which is what I live for;
surpassing the cumulative value of everything

that I can think of at least?
Men missing legs at least
at stop lights try
speaking to me but I just can’t conceive

that men missing legs at stop lights might
say anything worth my hearing and
much less. Shit. I realize why God doesn’t speak to me.

While I was sleeping a mosquito
carried by, on it’s back, the time
between past and future out
to some place, I don’t know, but
out of my reach assuredly.
Now, I woke with a hundred
moments carried by on the backs
of some hundred insects unknown
to me, assuredly, wandering around
wasting the time I hoped so hard to
be wasting myself when
I awoke a dreamer in daylight with
the future tied to my right and my left
bound up tightly with the past
spreading my arms out wide
so that with my eyes I could see
finally the Present, whom,
incidentally, loves
alluding me. Time is like
little insect wings
in that they carry on so easily without me.

how to be a milestone
do not acknowledge me
do not feel obligated to acknowledge me
acknowledge me a little when I wave from across the room
acknowledge me a little when I come to your work
tell me you are often pursued, and it gets old
tell me you enjoy living single
intrude into my life
be where I am
invite me to be where you are
think that I am strange, in a good way
think I am interesting, in a good way
think I have a lot to say, enjoy it
realize I leave into my own head, think it’s adorable
think I am adorable
feel obligated to listen to me
feel obligated to talk to me
acknowledge I am a shocking sort of weak
acknowledge I am not as you thought
feel obligated to be my friend
feel obligated to help me
think I am strange, in a bad way
think I am interesting, in a bad way
think I need to stop complaining
think I should stand up and be a man
realize I still leave into my own head, hate it
think I have no backbone
tell your friends I have no backbone
feel obligated to be my friend
feel obligated to linger in my life
feel slightly bad for me, but do nothing
(optional)
think I am perfect
think that you love me
tell me you love me
convince me we are perfect
convince me to watch the Notebook, tell me we are like them
love how we argue
love how I make you feel better quickly
feel obligated to be loyal to me, but do not
feel obligated to help me, do not
convince me we should get married
convince me we should sleep together
sleep with me
sleep with my roommate
sleep with my best friend
sleep with someone on my couch while I am out
sleep with me
think that you may not love me
tell me you love me
think that we may not last forever
tell me again that I am perfect
leave.

I’ve always said that drugs are for the faint
of mind, while god is for the strength
even the strongest need.
These days I remember that she is still
a drug I keep under my tongue to kill
the pain I anticipate to feel

in the morning when it is early
and all the lust I’ve let in is
just the push I needed to feel alone enough
to swallow it up.

She was the daily dose I gave myself to feel un-alone,
the peace I said to myself that I could have
if I just released my need to wonder
why and why…
why! on earth I felt she might never be honest with me…

I am not inclined to look forward to new love
but to cling to what I had, and demand that love
is what that was; thus I keep a slow pill always under my tongue.

A body can only get so naked,
while the soul is a fathomless treasure to be had.
I am utterly discontent with the body, not just mine, but all of ours. They are to be considered misleading, at best. I deceive myself when I consider it seeing a person when my eyes have looked upon their bones; I have seen very near to nothing relevant at all. In the same way my house or my room might grant a minimal awareness of the sort of person Nathanael is, but it is highly possible that the things which dictate the appearance of my house are dissimilar to those which dictate Nathanael. If you vacate my room, you will have no greater understanding than otherwise; arguably less in fact. The bare body is not something a woman carved out of stone for herself, it was merely granted her, and she stewards it as best she may know how. You will know more of her Creator when she is bare, but know more of her when she is clothed.
Every body which drinks of bodies remains thirsty, but the well of two souls engaging must not dry up. When I’m honest I will say to myself, I have never longed for the flesh of a woman, but for her soul to be caught up in mine– which is a statement far more pretentious than lust. Lust is a spoon sneaking honey, while love is the bear which steals the hive. It is for this reason I have had a much easier time asking a woman to lust with me, than to love with me. Lust is among the sorts of things that can be dished in portions, while love is not of the same sort whatsoever.

for every time heaven opens an eye
and for every thrust
of my finger through my temple
heaven hears the pain, not the cry

and for ever remedy made
there is another pain—
so either way

and if you can never prove me wrong
it’s because I cannot prove it myself
and if I cannot resolve
it is because resolve cannot be made
but must be taken.
must be heaven who spit on my feet

& made mud of the dirt
to comfort our souls…

must be heaven
who has her still in motion.
because you know, for every silence
heaven opens an ear
and for every time a knot is made
with my heart and my veins
GOD points to a prayer, says you are just

like the world you rot in
and though you’d forgotten

there still is no heaven, just a book
and some names, and Peter
at a gate

and you must believe.

(7/20/09)