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)

AT SOME POINT I am there/here again. Wondering what it is I meant
at all to be saying with my life and my time and my words at all. It’s so
unusual now to feel myself saying something I think is very much wort
h saying, or very much worth the time that it will take to say it. I wanna
be in love, and I know that. But how could that really mean anything be
yond bizarre sentiment? What can it say for how I will get to work in th
e morning? Or what I will eat when I get back home without groceries f
or another night? How will it drive me to clean my room or to pay my b
ills or to care for anyone that is not me? I find so frequently I do not like
what people call me. Whatever it is, it’s never just right. I don’t want to b
e righteous    nor sinner     nor pussy or push-over   nor pompous, not se
lf-loathing, nor esteemed, nor belittled I don’t want to be some bereaved
soul nor do I want to be some jackass addicted to happiness AT SOME P
OINT there has to be an ending…………………………………………………………

a heavy face boils on the stage
a hold on their hearts     as he opens
to every memorized manuscript which brings him severe tranquility- it brings him an intimate absence
of anything which is or was
.                                          one’s own
-because one’s own can only deliver
.                     a cranky silence
*no small
.                     revelation. not even
.                     a line                      or clever phrase, just
the lapse of time                  on a silent stage
and his busy mind and the empty page

he reads it off
the silent mug, the coffee stain
the coughing lungs, the laughing page
this is
some author’s way
.                     of raising stakes
turning the page
and leaving it blank:

now my voice even, is a violation
to what could make a world perfect.

best, to not.

best to be, a missing something
perhaps person or suture, claiming

perhaps heartless or murder
is better than the tone of me missing notes.

02.25.09

I and my ego,
You and yours.

You and my ego.
Your ego and me.

“Double blind date?” I say
“On the contrary” he says “only I will stay.”

Thusly, there is no date
Just Blindness and us.
No date, but certainly two
Who perceive they see
And in time they see they do
Not see as they first perceived
Double dating
Your ego and I
You, yourself, and mine.

don’t know if I can begin to express
the way a body feels
when a body leaves what a body is
to be what a body is
to me.

Did you know I loved you
when our hearts beat
when the sun rose
when the hand you held
was holding yours

at your mother’s house we could hold each other up
past the sun
at the same door I knew to ignore
now my chest is for
your head to rest

there were hours I felt nothing
there were hours I did not know
did you know I could love you
when I was not sure

Close them close them please
I keep unsealing eyes to find a life;
but absent of time I can survive
sealed up in wet animal eyes
no conscious thought- just distortions of what I want
to be thinking and cannot…

I laid out a table for to die upon
Yĕhovah overturned my table
and outdid the totality of death.