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.

Pussy On Hand

The scent of
your pussy on my fingers
makes the drive out to the country
even purer
in the morning
with the mid-morning sun
still working its way up into the sky
burning off the last of the dew
on the green and yellow
wavering tallgrass

The coiled fibers of tallgrass
remind me
of the small curly blonde hairs
bunched around the sides of
your forehead,
weedling undergrowth
aside your larger strands of
golden brown hair

The tallgrass speaks to me to be
sentient and live

Star Fawnus

It is a circle here.
Star Fawnus.
Two stars circling around
each other.
A solar system beyond them.
All that comes into the circle
is mineral and ghost,
and ghosts are everlasting.
Rocky hills.
Smells of brushy oak.
The burned tallgrasses.
Clouds sundancing
and night holding onto rain.

It is everlasting here,

where we have lost love.

Love In The Sky

I loved the moon last night
how I love you

Tracing curves
Trailing trails

It caused something deep in my heart
casting light
across
oak trees and prairies

something profound and proliferous
for glass creatures below

Its warm lit glow
reminding my neurons
the power in
I love you
and what belongs in a dominion
of breath

It moved tallgrass
sang wind-songs
Spread translucence
much greater than itself

It became love in the sky
there before
my pained, mortal eye

Its heavenly voyage made you be
the homestead of my earth

Yea though it created a moment in time
in space
an era of life verily unto thee

Lair Druidry

The trees can do
most anything you ask of them.
Go out into the woods,
find a grove, or find a lone tree.
Talk to them.
Speak your words out loud.

The trees communicate with each other.
There are approximately 3 trillion of them
on the planet.
They listen to everything.

You can request anything of trees,
but there is one limitation;

you cannot request anything evil.

And it’s not that you can request
something evil
but they will refuse to do it.
You can literally not even make the request.
Just by requesting something evil
you void their trust.
They will not act. They will not utter.

So ask yourself;
is this evil I plan on asking this tree?

If it is, it will be obvious to you.

This is but one way trees have
educated humans.
They have many contracts and spells
amongst the systems.

The Poet’s Guild

When we go into the woods
we lay down our weapons.
Place them at their feet,
their basin, their trunks,
on stones or behind shrubs,
on the edge of the forest,
before we enter.

The pine stops bullets.
The hickory blunts swords.
The willow catches arrows.
Such is their magic.

They bare time,
layered in their cores,
marked on their bodies,
growing towards the air;
the past, present, and future.
So what would you expect from
these beings?

In their presence,
we listen and learn,
feel their heartbeats in our heartbeat.
They show us how to become
into the All.
Consciousness masters.
So this
is why we lay down our weapons.

The Woods

The woods will ruin a lesser man.
They’re evil.
Teeming with creatures.
Teeming with whispers.
The woods carry cold,
hold onto cold,
but prosper insects in summer.
They’re everywhere;
the scorpions,
ticks,
centipedes.
You can’t lay down or relax
in the neverending mess of
leaves, dust, twigs, and pebbles.

Though the arms of the trees
bring you the moon.
Their dead warm your house,
build your pubs and tables.
Their leaves give you breath.

The woods are obstacles and evil to men.
They need to be destroyed
for new neighborhoods to be built.
Comfortable and romantic to women.
There for vacations and fires.
They are scary and alluring to children.
Home to wizards, witches, and faeries.


COMMENTARY

I live in a house on a hill, surrounded by tens of acres of thick woods. Mostly gnarled old oak trees, with an occasional pine, and some brambly trees like mulberry. The oak trees are interesting in their variability. Some are old, falling apart and decaying right before your eyes. Some are strong, sound, beaming, sociable and communal. Others, just years old, beginning their development and pining for the sky and moonlight. The woods are at once alluring, magical, enveloping, consuming, scary, and populated with a trillion spirits and life forms. They have the power to get into your psyche and expand your perspective on life, time, and existence, but also unsettle your deepest fears. I always feel I have been given something when I go into the woods and come back out. In a sense — the woods are psychedelic.

And yet many men (those of the testosterone sex) approach the woods as something to conquer, remove, and use for utility. I find this unfortunate, and something that comes from places of fear, insecurity, immaturity, and insignificance… nearly all evil and destruction of the testosterone male derives out of his struggle with insignificance. It originates in the importance, the stress, the need to perform his biological “duties” and the fear of those failures. Though his deepest fragility resides in his perceived reality of cosmic insignificance — which being a lone wolf (“my way or the highway”, “my family”, “my home”) he has failed to reconcile with the continuity of everything. And the woods; the woods are quite the opposite of this.

Trees are the guardians of Earth and our closest metaphor of the nature of the Cosmos. Our teachers. Our highest forms of life here.

Let Us Go Watch

Let us go watch while

the long rays of sunset

draw its light out

into the woods.

Made celebrants of darkness.

Life everlasting.

Here in this moment.

But also always all around.

Let those photons

bend our corporeal presence

to something angelic,

something where forgetfulness

and remembrance

is humbled by insignificance

of awe.

I’ll take tea with her,

in the club of existential poets.

Make me out of stars, fair father.

Tell me I am queer, dear weird,

dear mother.

Oh god, mothers are always

left apologizing.

God damn left handedness.

Let the day turn.

The trees stand.

Vines grown gnarled and green.

Trees reach out.

And the light will find its way.

Books closed and written

in the stupidity

of Earthling humans.

And night borne of morning words.

That old cellular way of consciousness.

Love and radiation.