Made Beautiful

You were made beautiful.

And I have been sent
to unmake you
so the beauty that originally
made you
can be made again in you.

You were made beautiful.
Water from a spring
for humanity.
But the metals of men
polluted you.
Though there in your skin
the water runs true.
Just when I see you
I drink you
and refresh you
with the renaissance of
yourself,
the electrification of heaven.
My sweetest blue eyes,
your eyes carry memories
of your making.
I’m quenched.
You quench thus forward.

Turned ancient sojourn of
matter from heaven to
consciousness
it’s you.

Someone Who Loves You #1

Someone who loves you
will wake up in the middle of
the night when you wake up
not breathing well,
with a dry mouth,
feeling anxious,
your heart pounding tepidly
in the stillness of the desert night,
and they will ask you in a gentle whisper,
“Baby, are you ok?”

And yeah,
that is pretty straight up what love is

in its myriad ways.

Le Psychedelic

Barbara Schley blowing out bubbles
on the bottom of a swimming pool
lit by red light gleaming,
I have been there.
Oh Barbara baby.
Sea nymphs swimming in
a future aquatic Mars’ ocean.
Been there too.
Talking to walls
myself I did share with nothing
and crumbled,
bumbled,
found my way back.
Or another way,
a way of a moment.
That is my way,
our way,
these ways together,
a language of heaven,
here in our skin.
We die. Live. Die. Live.
Every single second.
A universe shorn and unshorn.
God. Righteous. Mystery.

Prayer For One Of The Languages Of The Woods

And the Woman of The Woods said,

“Thank you for teaching me
the language of the woods,
its stillness,
in these carved autumn nights.

Thank you for time,
now
and however anciently forever.
It’s just right there,
it and the world of forms.

Oh goodness,
thank you for breaking space travel,
death, celebrities, and Instagram.

God, thanks for these realizations,
… or rather, I should say; reckonings.

To be reduced, humbled, then filled
with light.

All that go solo cannot be solo.
All that be collectively can only be one.

No beings,
but beingness, only beingness are we.

Speak in that tongue.

Come, let me kiss your lips.
Let me kiss your tussen bark.”

Lesbian Kiss In Capitalism

God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.

Just your lips.

In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.

Then why not now?

Why can’t the air be ours?

Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?

Why is winter always judged?

Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.

Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.

They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.

Our Ways To Death

As we fall to our death
from the sky,
30,000 feet from a crashing plane,
I embrace you,
hold you,
wrap all of myself around you
to protect you,
give every core of my body over
to providing refuge and solitude
to you in our final moments as we fall.
You kick out in anger,
in reflex,
in animalistic rebellion,
a fawn with her leg trapped in a fence,
and we split off and fall to our deaths
alone.
Me in tears and lost.
You in fear, freaked out, and fighting
ghosts who should’ve loved you.
Til the earth breaks our angelic selves
and busts the breath in our lungs
to nothing and everything else.

Why?

Why?

Is this what Sapphic love is?

We now know why civilization fails.

The best among us cannot love.

Let Darkness

Let darkness be
but gentle
the soul of my girl in the world
my soul made in the mold of
a woman.
Let darkness speak
in nonchalance with light
I sit there,
watching and also feeling
the sunset on my skin.
These good equilibriums,
well then let them
crown, but crown no one,
let me be one queen of humanity
amongst a billion.
Let those algorithms alone
and let them write the treatise
of this poem
until the Thracian plebeian ladies
live free
with their parmesan flakes
outside
by the farmhouse.

Born & Birth

Can we born and birth ourselves?

Something in our body did.
Something deep within us.
In our core.
Our origin. Our beginning.
The hours here after our before.
One end of the universe
to the other end.
Right there in our forehead
and our skin
walking within panties or boxers,
walking with the beasts in the fields,
people in the cities,
trees in forests.
Walking by those elder elms
a whisper known to life
the turn of death, the turn of birth
known to self,
a self that does not begin nor end.
The moss on stone.
The mushroom of the kingdom dead.
Estuaries of darkness,
tributaries of light
in every genome and atomic particle,
programmed and programming
space and non-space alike.

Flugelhorn Stars

Why do the flugelhorn stars
touch so many of us?

Just a bit closer to the mountains
born across thousands of planets.

Mountains all across many homes
we look at
in the midsummer sky
remembering something
we carry in our blood.

Our eyes call out.
Joyous.
Celebratory.
Lonely.

These are gold, far off
flugelhorn stars
that
our theories of physics confirm
these
theories that made and make us.

Azure Dionysian

It is through buoyant sexual azure
that I’ve changed the world,
known it, navigated it,
been changed by it.

Vibrant berry azure
on the edge of my dark brown eyes,
lustful in all those moments
when someone speaks to me,
them to me,
me to them,
feeling and knowing
this ripe berry energy.

Azure Dionysian,
as your days turn into
something closer to heaven,
lead all those to their sexuality of spirit,
their freedom.