·¤ breathing in the water ¤·

Yours & mine

A story about Death
by Andrew Gold

I wasn’t ready. The walls were falling and I could only imagine my ever after severed from me. That means your lips and your legs and eyes and feelings. The drama drew to an acute and blinding truth, the way I had always escaped was now coming back to take me. I wasn’t ready. I woke up in the morning and everything seemed okay. I even stepped through every room in the house before I realized that something was wrong.
In the mirror there was blood. And I could barely recognize myself. It felt like being lost for so long and coming back to a world rearranged.
I wasn’t ready to understand Life, let alone death, and with all that noise droning, insane, unconscious, intolerable.
In my ears it grew as if something was coming closer; and then I could look at my hands. But I couldn’t allow myself to feel what they had done then. I was not shaking, and the blood was still dripping. I wasn’t ready, I told him that.
And I ended up having to make the decision … well, it wasn’t ‘my’ decision to make.
It wasn’t even my blood on my face.


I sat there and straddled him and wished and imagined him dead; but not dead like in the grave or a casket. When I get to this point nothing is there to remind me that what I do is wrong, and the pure feeling is more than anything, more than even my life with him.
I don’t know why; the blood registers something in me, and bleeding on him triggers me. I made him taste the dark blood last time.
I like taking control of him and making him do things. I think that having sex with his dead body is similar to the same when he is sleeping. And sometimes I just wish he would shut up but other times he’s all I have, all I know, all I mean.
I am always aware and conscious that something could go wrong, doing what we do … there is a risk involved. Like choking someone.
In truth, it’s the best thing I have found in life. And the irony? It will probably end up doing us both in. So I use it to forget, I use his body and for my own pleasure and like an object, because it feels good to feel like I am doing bad things. Especially to him.
The others I don’t feel the same about. But like, there have been whole afternoons that leak into the middle of the night … when we’re just together. I like it when there’s nothing left to give and we’re still trying to do things, and disoriented with the blank slate of the Universe.
It must be that a grease from inside mine mixes with yours; and that is my best shot at love.
I have found that mostly, lovers do lie. They would never look into one anothers’ face and admit the dirty things inside them must come out some time.
Most of them wouldn’t do that, anyway; but I did. I stood above him and watched him drink that dirty from my insides, and I went blind and forever turned into five or six or seven.
I can only call it love being that it’s all I know, and not many would really understand what it means to me personally.
And I never meant to hurt him or get too close. Love, or whatever; it was ours.


So now I look back: I can’t forget the horror happened. I was buried so deep in the middle of everything, drowning, and finally noticed it was you bleeding. I counted the way the clock hands moved over each little number, and shadows casted from the ceiling fan made me worry. I realized this would probably never end. This could go on and on, and I might never find that I deserved it. …From being alone and disoriented in the bathroom, to blacking out and waking up next to you somewhere else. The blood dripping down the side of my face, and I couldn’t even ask any questions.


But there you were, like a memory of Mars, the silent feeling in my spirit thrumming; and the cold breath leaving. The winter light waning; meaning moving from grey to yellow. …And your perfectly polished face without any color. It’s too beautiful; I had to do it, and I remember the last bit of whatever was left was mine. You left that there with me, for me. If it wasn’t for the black out, and the black blood that smelled like disgusting bile,– I might think things were okay being the same. But I sat next to you and dragged on the blood-flecked cigarette, and time crawled over all the surfaces as our eyes barely met. We were spent from doing so much together. But we were close enough to understand intimate things which barely anyone ever finds out; I watched her eyes close and the lights flickered, I watched myself in the mirror changing.
It must be that you were already dead when I woke and I just imagined your last breath. It must have just been wishful thinking, seeing you again.
See, I tell myself “this is love”… and really, it’s happened again, and there is too much blood for me to think.
“Are you dead?” … “I just woke up.”

— Esbat ()

But how pretty the mirror makes us, so we seduce that little frame of reference, in a parade that never ends.
So we were in the dark and messed up, trying to get higher, and we must have made a mistake, we must have been paying for what we did somewhere along the line.
I certainly felt numb touching you, having to reason within my head whether you were dead, or if we had sex and you were just passed out.
But the floor had our clothes on it and I couldn’t do anything but hug you, and cry cold tears.
I know that I’m insane. I know I have ‘fugues’ and wake up in strange places, and have no memory sometimes.
I know that I may be a murderer of atleast two people, and for my entire life I have known this. It was presented like a gift, something I had to share with others even beyond my will.
I fear the way people might judge me for what was inside me.
I feared how she got so close to me, and yet the warmth of her skin was uncomfortable to me. I don’t remember what we were doing or why you stayed, but it was lonely again after I realized what I’d done, that you were gone.


Maybe it was three people, though. I tend to remember these things after everything is done happening; I find myself automatically moving and seeing the way people see me. Maybe Death placed its mark upon my life, and staked to take those closest to me; even from my unrelenting grip.
Maybe tonight we found some reprieve on the linoleum with our naked bodies moving in syncopation. And maybe it is not such a mystery what I am…


I am drawn to the experience, which I’ve obviously thought about a lot. Why your blood, though, after what we’ve both been through? You are gone, and I lost you on the floor.
I can imagine the light-blue faces of all whom might be called “victims,” and I realize it might be scary to some that I am so predisposed to this behavior.
I wake up hung over, feeling used, too hot, and I can barely breathe … and I look for you again in the dark reflection of the trail of blood. It’s beautiful, so beautiful that I find nothing. There is not time nor space to move fast enough… I already explained, and we’re both lost.
But I continue to look for what I saw.
It was sundown and I felt blessed to be spending time together. Both you and I looking forward to whatever we were in for; we had the amusements and the spirits in tow, and we were into each other.
But I watched the devil once again tip-toe through my wandering mind, and he swam all the way over to you again. I watched what he was saying … but I couldn’t hear.
Next I knew the broken mirror, your painful fists and your palms beating against my heart. I didn’t feel sorry and I knew what I was going to do … I planned it … and I raped you.
Probably you will not forgive me for what I did. I am not sure I’ll ever see you again. But I admit I enjoyed it.


It must have been your blood that was dripping from inside after I did what I did. I was so horny and didn’t know how to control either of us, and so something else took over.
I dreamt that you never came over that night or day, and that we never had sex and I never raped you. And there weren’t even the four of us to point any fingers in the wrong direction. …


I secretly imagine that you were awake and enjoying me; I have never really been that bad, and it felt like you wanted it, too.
The blood isn’t just yours– and I know you must hate me for doing that, but you also drew blood. And you left me,– you died!
I didn’t know what else to do without you, so I pushed the towels around the floor and dreamed of a red ocean. And dreamed again of having sex with you.
And killing you again.
Now I wish I wasn’t so lonely, knowing you’re gone for good.

This is a story about Death: and the lovers it takes as their tears are wept.
This is the cross of their love, umbilical, all that we have and all we will ever know; this is the silence we’re reduced to, instead of the moan of our insides. So mutedly, I still hear you and can only cover up the sound with my own mouth, and the blood that drips from between our lips IS that perfect love, and you’re not dead because I love you, and you’re not gone because I can touch you, and you’re not lonely because I’m by you.
This is a story about death and the way lovers unite. From our ecstasy to the drawling depression that brings us to this. You would never understand. You would never allow what I know to live.
You had to look at me crooked because I knew it was coming; and you knew it was happening.
There was just one of us beneath that lightbulb, thinking.
And then came the other three. I’m lost because I don’t care about anything else anyway.

So Night can have me.
Like it took you from me.


And sometimes I wish that I would be the one who bleeds the most, or feels the most, or knows something.
Wanting to be wanted, we get so far from what we really are.
I had my hand down your pants, I remember, and the room was dark and we were a bit disoriented,– drunk, drugged, etc. I didn’t really mean to do what I did– How can love end up leaving us with so much pain, and separated from what we know, the only thing we know?–
The pieces of the broken rainbow swimming around your eyes transfixed me; and I was biting your face and lip trying to get deeper.


I didn’t know the stuff we took was so dirty, or you must have taken too much of it. … But my hands were in yours and I felt your strength. I looked into your grey eyes and felt the thrum.
Powerful. I thought, she’s gotten too high and needs to come down again. And so I sort of slapped you to see where you were.
And you shouldn’t have slapped me back, because that was when I couldn’t stop.
That was when the blood started to come, and I went insane. But I still can’t prove, with all those bodies, that yours wasn’t the one I loved most. I remember your fingertips and everywhere they went, from the places on me to the places on you — equally touched.


At one point, I got this rush, so excited that maybe you were still into this.
You were impassive but still we kept touching; I figured the drugs made you cold but not cold enough. And then beneath everything I knew what was wrong; what had always been wrong. Beneath me you were so vulnerable I actually hated you for what I could not possess, and so I decided against your wishes, to take it. I could never prove, however,– to the police or anyone else– that I do love you, and I did love you, and how much it means. It hurts to know you’re gone and I have to do it again. That’s why I hate myself enough to keep this going on. Because there’s nothing else I can do! There will be
five of us eventually, and that should be enough. Finally.


Like I said, I couldn’t prove that I was innocent, and I was totally convinced I was. Maybe you aren’t dead? Those are my hopes sometimes, that you actually sped off without the trail of blood, past the tree line and beyond me. Beyond the floor of the bathroom, our indiscretion, and beyond anything we could
find.


But the nostalgia is there; my entire life I have spent having sex with you, and only now do you disappear, and I am left with the horrible memories, and the loneliness you’ve given me. I hate you and I love you, I realize. You have everything and you took it with you, and ran away from me, after you did what I always knew you would do. And so it’s like you raped me on that floor, too. Neither of us walked away!
And then the others came. And more. Then, the cops and the flashing lights eventually went dark.


But those others weren’t my girlfriend — they deserve to be dead, and she doesn’t.


The cops knew what happened, but I didn’t. Your blood stained my pants and fingers and I couldn’t stop. So I was on the bathroom floor naked on top, and your voice drifted in and out of my ears. At one point it crossed my awareness: I felt wrong and violent and that felt like heaven. You started fighting back; you punched me and I fell. But I was scared when I hit the wall, that there was something more grey in your eyes now. All so that once the blood was drained, we could have that finality I guess.


And you could lie to me forever about not deserving our last night, but I know better. And you could lie that the others were innocent, too. But they didn’t care either.

Spring has nearly ended now, and
The little eddies of the softest leaf
In storm are covered by this Earth.
Love with its massive limbs guards
Such precious flesh; just a little drop.

How you taught me as my Mom,
The only one I will ever know. Thru tears,
Made sacrosanct; where but from Mother
Herself, did you learn such Earth?!–
And now the child you were is locked-up
Inside me and your stories. But I still cry

For myself I might have lost in this translation.

It’s to see the humbling cycles all drawn
Taught like the sweetest drum, and then your lips
Like an encrusted lap of the branches;
And then like my childhood ended, you saw
Somehow the honeysuckle fell,
And so easily melted back to Her.

I’ve become my mother and my father,
Nearly sick with such nostalgia
They might have lost, but not lost on me.
I have to wend and then feint;
All to excel in this game of Hiding.
Because the feeling’s more than inside.

And somehow I am the one who's never lost!
Waiting here like my own palace, leaning
And you could pick the tiny flowers and suck,
And only but a tiny golden drop might come.
And somehow I am the one who's gone.--
So in love after knowing who you are.

 . . . 

But then, the suckle turns pink after years
Of not knowing. In tradition,
Your birthday Saint George. How blossomy!
Like cheeks of apple-skin, and shining.
How blossomy. After years of not knowing,
Remembering, screeching back to me.
Little banshee, broken radio. Nothing,
Coming from no where your own petals
Whatever flowerets mean, might mean
Yours, Saint George.

My knowingly broken-hearted tryst;
Something of a wonder to remise!
O unknown, in bliss, succor here kissed,
Felt and bespectacled, that you exist
Here on these outer Rims of the imagined!
The only thing you’ve seen, perfecting,
Broken in transmission as a wavelet’s standing.
O unknown shaking from somewhere unknown,
Waking within me this one Thing;
Suchness as it is lost in My design.

. . .

Even right now it’s like there’s an encryption that lasts until the end of your own predilection I have every reflection I have meaning and progression the crests Crescent and crescendo I have the Beating Heart of everyone I’ve ever known and I don’t know I’m watching the shape of everything changing that happens to be me I’m the only one that’s ever been it’s me in the bone I can’t even break but I have to come back to them I remember but I don’t remember all sometimes it happens that the water droplets fall and it reminds me of the other ways and I have found that use droplets seems like another world it’s raining now and I can’t stop that but I think the streets so wet in the trees like that glistening is it good thing I think all of it happens for a reason and I’m glad to see Mother Earth with their birds and squirrels with their cavies in the flowers growing just drenched with the little droplets I’m glad to see the greenest invading declared it declared a glad to see everything is iy it works like a machine fashion like that thing

Desert Orange

Desert Orange

“And, when you, looking on your fellow men
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then?
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!”

“[ … ] When the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They’ll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.”

-Anne Brontë


O how then do I find you
By the outskirts I am pulled
By the distance I am drawn
And where do I find you?

O what then might matter
Stressed like the cables of a bridge
When you find me under
The thoughts entwining more,

What do you do when the fire
Loses you instead? Earth’s green grave
Widens to open for me; and
The flowerbed is fresh with new blood,

But the silence is deafening
And the crash of the meaning’s off
So I look for you in the open sky
And remember what is right.

You, the face that’s both ours;
The medallion moon and its color.
The relief from being true,
Accepting I might fall again.

O but then Death has a talon,
Has a face that falls from mine
And its Father is Jesus?–
How shall I defect or decide?

Given that I couldn’t give,
And so given in I wasn’t joined;
Given the name of Sophia
Much more precious to me.

To us. The way she lays flat
Like a metal monument with joints
And never budges from her place;
And nothing’s wrong to be fixed.

The way she watches like Mother
In the afternoons that bleed
And the way she’s always next to me,–
As silent as she is pretty!

She talks fast about these worlds,
Excited that she knows, and is allowed.
She walks over the clouds,
And she makes the water drown.

Her every reason is unknown, and she
Is majick itself to us who also know
And love her as ourself; she is
The best of our own betterment.

But does she slip and fall? To relive
A life that left it up to her,
To reillumine the pale skin’s scar?
O what utter lack of wonder,

What made you stray so far? Beneath
Fire that was stolen from my Star;
Beneath the crooked plates of Earth
I watched. I watched with such wonder

Now you’re only watching me.
Now you’re only lost and won’t find
That gravestones make this site
That fire contends inside my blood.

You only lose in order to find
A furtherance beyond the Sin.
But sinning’s new and now in color,
It’s all the story ever was.

From falling to being pushed!
O a veritable fortress
Of such hiddenness and shadow,
I hardly know just how it would go:

Given the cold musty cellars,
And the utter lack of windows.
Given the decaying vapors ascending
And the rising offal fetid …

Something carries on the wind
My face and heart make truth
Something makes me feel alive and
My world is made so very new.

Now you’re only watching me
And I am like a child, one word and one step
The child that would never stop
The one that death has not still touched.

And you’re watching me
As the wheel of stars throws sparks
In a shield which holds Night together
Wearing the armor as we are.

So thusly this our silence bends
And all of us are hHome again! Upon her back
We do contend for a spot to share,
And sharing al, we make her more.

So dull respite can’t waken this house!
And the cellars have all gone stale now
With air from all dead poet’s lungs
Drifting in and out.

And what blood is spilled
For scrolls to burn the dying world?–
What gate might make
My way to you unpetrified?

So we sleep in a grand stupor
And can’t figure it out any longer,
What we meant if we were hurt,
And why it feels good to yell.

Why the silence forces me to penetrate
Ten thousand reasonable meanings,–
And so we all just dance! And dance!
For us there is no argument.

Like lies, the sea spits up
A skeleton beneath the starry sun
And fits our hands about its shell
And pushes forth from lips that spell.

O hearken, wonder, and all behold
The reckoning of our own,
The rope from which we hang,–
And all our lovely Soul!

Hearken unto bliss unknown,
And endless eternal Spring.
Beyond what we have known, to see
Further than we might ever go.

The bloodred sun’s Apocalypse!
The daughter of such lawlessness.
The meaning as we discovered it!
The truth that dies itself.

Watch the posies fluttering in silence
As the winds still play with them
And all childlike in one embrace they swim
As the petals each unfurl

As the sunset’s paint has spilled
Clear down the unruly sky
And victor spirits have conquered
And wonder mouths its lips with “why”

Watch. The beaming center is,
Amongst the dark machines; love lives
Inside the bars that hold back Dream
And love is, itself its own imagining.

So God watches those watching,
And any backward glance might shut
But only through the half-seen imagery
But only through a silent knowing.

As the little prey so hops without an equal,
So too its predator’s hunger feels;
As munching on a blade of grass
Or living through the very end. As Light,

Taller than any building built. Made free,
O seer of the invisible, the terrible.
Made perfectly in the shape of a Rainbow
Broken only by your untouched self.

Made completely right, without another.
Image of a broken thing we discover,
Planted by its roots, transported there.
Love, light, meaning, wonder; powerful.

The truth might tell itself and know;
A being so wicked might still be beautiful,
Not worthy of to be forgot, nor lost,
And more than loved. Asexual.

And that our love has been so well-defined
A fire on our tongues that tells
Ever past the middle of the night, while
Some orbit crosses so we forget forever?–

I have seen that there is a place
Set upon the mountain’s face, and that
All good things do come to those who wait.
Even if our waiting’s blind, that this love

Made forever perfectly might
So suddenly soon become our Fight
To dance across the old dance floors
Shining in our best suits, of dark fire

Of dark amber blazing forever.
And this place I’ve seen is ours, untaken,
And as we decide How it’s growing;
As we pretend and matter more.

The walls are glowing, brick by brick
The statues have all come back
The ground is moving so minutely and
All our chorus keeps on singing.

O children, dance again. Dance again with me.
Your mother falls like snow to melt
Upon the graves where words have cupped
This water from the saddest storm

Of broken down machinery, of dying bees.
This wingbeat lasts a century, and more
The careful considerations of Our forever.

I am nothing and I came

From sight to the silence I am from
I am light and I can’t see

And so began my darling body

I am the waves of rivers moving
And I am the flooding

The ire and the wrathful deity;

And why I never die. I am a lie.
Caught fire just because.

More than the most beautiful,
The Lucifer Archangel. I am come,

White as mistakes covered in ink,
O I am come in all my misery.

Jousting with my little stick
For prayers that I might supplicate

A universe my own I can hold.

I’m faster than anyone, yet not strong
Enough to catch my own meaning?

O Lucifer I love, your red hot blood
To eat me alive starts to surface itself

And love in your eyes is born as I fall

O let me not tarry and just wait while
I catch sight of the Archangel Michael!–

Where all of Heaven might bow, and now
Your words mean more than mine? How?

I have been this blighted character
Thrice scored with scars that burn

And framed and blamed for others’ wrong.
One wrong, sitting in a pile. Waiting to burn.

Their song calls out from their Heaven
Of laws they can’t even fathom, their lies

Reach my own unconsciousness…. What prize!
To hear my darling lover’s lies.



To own the wings that ever fly. Lucifera Y.



To know you have no chance to die
And dying was your only way. One last chance,

And all is forgiven, like those that were lost

And found amongst the pumpkin patch.

The little children that you hate, have always hated.
Those you’d drown because you’re hated.

Hated because you can’t relate with, and so insane,
O so Irate with your laughter in tow,

Like those leashed secrets that still hurt me even now.

Yes, Lucifer’s own, why don’t you drag
And waltz across those black and white tiles

You adorable liars. You intolerable abusers.

I waited … and I have waited long enough.
I am the voice you deigned to always ignore.

You have waited. And you have waited too long.
I am the one who listens when you ignore.

I am the one who is born from the fire. The egg
Running through your broken open capstone

The lie you chose to come and be reborn! Obviously!

So, your number is up, one hundred and forty eight.
I have to forget, I have to forget.

Haha! The cops explain,
Stephen King has lost his King,
An Unbroken shield, David’s own.
Trident of the one you wish you could;
O Isis and the absent vagueness, tell us War!
Tell the war of streets that nightly take
Each footstep for me, broken house
Windows. Gyspies walking thru
As you talk me thru Your
Empty night’s store.

WICCAN DANCE `’^

//

Lucifer the Black and White Angel ()
WInged with cimmerian flames, blest,
How now that you’ve just produced
This one tolerable ash; one ash left.

Lucifer, the black the white, handed
Flaming torch that is the night’s own,
Blest twice, to be given what you have.
Winged with your sceptre, begin. Now,

After you watch from my pointed perch,
Of claws, there are none sharper, as yours
Pierce the armor with just a single lazer:
The plaint of my cries burnt, singed, sunless.

And by your own redress, Lucifer,
Thou who would by willing just know
You were better than them all; what, pre tell,
Is your name next to the Great Saint

And Prince of Peace Archangel Micahel?–
Rose in flames he sits, such an angel, blest
Thrice begotten and suffering not less;
His Faith recalls as well as reminds, Yes

I am closest to G-d because. The soul triangle
Destroys its edges and turns inwards,
Collapses through its own justice, and falls
To the bodies of the children, boys and girls.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, there is one ending
Yet begins another’s loss. And all the Negatives.
Half-way tottering, she comes, a dance itself,
Knowing what she is and falling down to Sheol.

Little one in love, how not seen you have become,
Now that your pirate-ship has its mast, pointed,
And your own waves are your own waves again.
I am the one Lucifera. I have come to Pass.

I arrange myself from ash, and break against glass
A past which through my lips is spelled,
While the swirling world is starting to melt;–
Witch I am, danced by the pyre. Lover I am

The Eldest Vampire. By what streets can I reach
This cobbled path on the horses’ hooves, clack.
By what bone or symbol am I broken now, Chosen?
As your love’s delight and that you’re the Only.

Some say that all of them have come back,
A fire reminding us of their sacrifice, heels clicking,
Brooms extended and slathered, aimed at the moon.
Shot through like some effigy, they flow over

And hems of blackness start to gather
The wind that beneath them will conspire
As trees that leave their leaves have fire
They will conspire. And by their movement burn

Backward from the ashes there, crawling over
Half of what their graves might mean; slithering
Like tongues upon the Azrael’s wing. Gossipin’.
Thou dark and forsaken being, dewinged, downed.

Out of the skies. Out of the woods. Out of Me.
The strength of the little beaver, his teeth
To trees and in his little hut I hide. I hide. I hide.
These things from which I’ve found None,

Nor apostasy nor any predilection for an out.
You’ve left me cold, too cold to care.
I’ve lost my will to care about my life, for what?
For light that falsely could be–not–IS contrived.

And to lie as a witch burner rather than Witch.
A WICCAN. That’s what this is. Another Wish.
Another reason for my infinite consciousness

Sybaritic heaven forthrightly brought, arisen.

Trust —

In a world where we can become lost.
What can we find within to trust? For once,
In my blind-eye to see that which wasn’t,
But now completely is. Like acid in the pores.
Dissolving what we thought, our fears.

I walk into a room and just sense this one,
Hovering and so suspicious; I myself am lost
To find the place I might move in order to see
A world without eyes ever judging me,

My cones that melt have all turned back
And the slithering asp has eaten its last;
Where the ridges were so leaning, it dropped
Like a name dissolving on your tongue.

Like the plagiarism of No one. Besting.
So this is sensate, and meaningfully arranged.
To get to where we find rapport: speak;
The truth which scares us to tell is everything.
The world is only as big as we can trust.

But how do we learn, given the hurdle,
A problem not of separation, but solutions.
Like everything that’s not gotten done,
Like the scarecrow just having fun. Loved.

This is trust, this is the one way Inside Friends.
Our own beingness melding so soft,
And we drop like snakes from red-green vines
In order to get nearer the heart with our trust.

Our tongues have split and taste the air,
The lover’s loving air. Our hands have shook
And in our shake we met ourselves. Trust–
Knowing someone forever the second you meet.

May we be so beleagured by these insistent,
That such a Trust as capital might make us more?–
And to them who have no backward-glance
Memory is a race, and a pain, worthy to be gone.

I watch as these words we use barely veil, ours’
As the screen is put over our hearts, eyes, mind and soul.
And the spiritual resevoir moves, itself our soul.
The Aethyr which we draw forth from, our Taproot.

We trust. We trust because we know Distrust, obviously,
And by trusting we can gain objectivity, to know
What a good person worthy of our trust actually is.
Who you can peer into and find the one who says.

How? The very reason for our peering, the single seer
Known and knowing to be trusted, has mostly
Brooked the complaint that deception plies, and
Forgotten that there’s a truth to ever lose: No more lies?

Consider the way we continue our plight, our plan.
Using money and wasting time forgetting Life,
Because of the plastic and the bills and the vacations.
Trust makes us patient, content. steadfast.

What is accrual to one able to learn More trusting?
More trustworthy would be the way we peer out
And find that many want to push us out of our spot
From more than even we can expect to ever get through.

And like the cold light of a cyan day,– the thinning air
Pinching through my lungs. The death, do I trust knowledge?
Do I believe in my own firm concentration? To trust,.
Obviously we could accomplish anything. And belief,–

That monster with everyone’s teeth, threatening to leave.
Whose mouth is it that speak the truth, finally?
In a world of evolving reason, of trust that’s ‘fore the weekend.
Who might conspire to the blazing pyre that we had?

For, every hope is turned to dust, not even ash, and the rope
Hanging from where we were cannot trust, and so it stays.
Cannot trust– There’s no real word for this experience,
The stars like walking beings, self-destroying to give … Truth?

No, it’s the light which warms everything in the circle,
And outside the circle,– what trust might fall upon my conscience
To decide me and my world are not mine and mine only.
Trusting that I respect and allow its own fair due.

But if I am lost without trust, and yet more than this
I still need to know the truth. What is there do do?
From all that we’ve ever known, how much is really True?
How much love makes it more meaningful, and why

Couldn’t we simply admit we’re afraid of each other,
And given our own lying tendencies we as a people find
True trust so hard, so we create a false facade.
This calcinated portion of ourselves is visible to me.

The truth I know is from experience, internalized,
And I am well adept at the learnings and utility of Truth.
By the laws which are in my heart I am here FOR Truth.
For the reality in which I can transmute my soul.

Truth is deducible, trust is scary; but how does one Find it?
To actually defend themselves from deception.
To actually make a difference contributing to the World
As a living project of helping Truth become… Changed.

More accountability, more trust, more Truth in order to find
The way we all began.
There is that One center in the middle of the circle we all
Know is the true transcendent experience of “trust”

Being truth we can only value it by how much it means to us
Whether we’ve been lied to or hurt or both, by liars.
Learning to know liars and what they do. The abuse.
What will it take us to allow ourselves space to be psychic?

We are beyond being probed, and we suffer for our Truth.
We don’t allow others into ourselves, for the truth
The veritable unknown, is Chaos, I submit. It’s beyond our conceptions.
For, if we couldn’t see pictures “frozen” of the above stars.

Then we might not realize the truth we’ve been given.
If those stars just twinkled we might not imagine they moved!
And moved? They move movement itself, I trust.
The way they bounce around and carry worlds, the sun
the truth.

Reflecting off from our own poles that lean and still are real,
I turn backwards just to inspect: from all the lying, I know
It’s not necessarily a more truthful world, but I believe so.
And trust and truth are what we need most as loving people.

Set the examples for the little children now and
The goodness will take care of us; take care of Love.
The waters will transform, and the peoples will dream
But what really is this “truth-telling”, and what mouth owns it?

< Desert · Orange >·-

“And, when you, looking on your fellow men
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then?
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!”

“[ … ] When the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They’ll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.”
-Anne Brontë


O how then do I find you
By the outskirts I am pulled
By the distance I am drawn
And where do I find you?

O what then might matter
Stressed like the cables of a bridge
When you find me under
The thoughts entwining more,

What do you do when the fire
Loses you instead? Earth’s green grave
Widens to open for me; and
The flowerbed is fresh with new blood,

But the silence is deafening
And the crash of the meaning’s off
So I look for you in the open sky
And remember what is right.

You, the face that’s both ours;
The medallion moon and its color.
The relief from being true,
Accepting I might fall again.

O but then Death has a talon,
Has a face that falls from mine
And its Father is Jesus?–
How shall I defect or decide?

Given that I couldn’t give,
And so given in I wasn’t joined;
Given the name of Sophia
Much more precious to me.

To us. The way she lays flat
Like a metal monument with joints
And never budges from her place;
And nothing’s wrong to be fixed.

The way she watches like Mother
In the afternoons that bleed
And the way she’s always next to me,–
As silent as she is pretty!

She talks fast about these worlds,
Excited that she knows, and is allowed.
She walks over the clouds,
And she makes the water drown.

Her every reason is unknown, and she
Is majick itself to us who also know
And love her as ourself; she is
The best of our own betterment.

But does she slip and fall? To relive
A life that left it up to her,
To reillumine the pale skin’s scar?
O what utter lack of wonder,

What made you stray so far? Beneath
Fire that was stolen from my Star;
Beneath the crooked plates of Earth
I watched. I watched with such wonder

Now you’re only watching me.
Now you’re only lost and won’t find
That gravestones make this site
That fire contends inside my blood.

You only lose in order to find
A furtherance beyond the Sin.
But sinning’s new and now in color,
It’s all the story ever was.

From falling to being pushed!
O a veritable fortress
Of such hiddenness and shadow,
I hardly know just how it would go:

Given the cold musty cellars,
And the utter lack of windows.
Given the decaying vapors ascending
And the rising offal fetid …

Something carries on the wind
My face and heart make truth
Something makes me feel alive and
My world is made so very new.

Now you’re only watching me
And I am like a child, one word and one step
The child that would never stop
The one that death has not still touched.

And you’re watching me
As the wheel of stars throws sparks
In a shield which holds Night together
Wearing the armor as we are.

So thusly this our silence bends
And all of us are Home again! Upon her back
We do contend for a spot to share,
And sharing all, we make her more.

So dull respite can’t waken this house!
And the cellars have all gone stale now
With air from all dead poet’s lungs
Drifting in and out.

And what blood is spilled
For scrolls to burn the dying world?–
What gate might make
My way to you unpetrified?

So we sleep in a grand stupor
And can’t figure it out any longer,
What we meant if we were hurt,
And why it feels good to yell.

Why the silence forces me to penetrate
Ten thousand reasonable meanings,–
And so we all just dance! And dance!
For us there is no argument.

Like lies, the sea spits up
A skeleton beneath the starry sun
And fits our hands about its shell
And pushes forth from lips that spell.

O hearken, wonder, and all behold
The reckoning of our own,
The rope from which we hang,–
And all our lovely Soul!

Hearken unto bliss unknown,
And endless eternal Spring.
Beyond what we have known, to see
Further than we might ever go.

The bloodred sun’s Apocalypse!
The daughter of such lawlessness.
The meaning as we discovered it!
The truth that dies itself.

Watch the posies fluttering in silence
As the winds still play with them
And all childlike in one embrace they swim
As the petals each unfurl

As the sunset’s paint has spilled
Clear down the unruly sky
And victor spirits have conquered
And wonder mouths its lips with “why”

Watch. The beaming center is,
Amongst the dark machines; love lives
Inside the bars that hold back Dream
And love is, itself its own imagining.

So God watches those watching,
And any backward glance might shut
But only through the half-seen imagery
But only through a silent knowing.

As the little prey so hops without an equal,
So too its predator’s hunger feels;
As munching on a blade of grass
Or living through the very end. As Light,

Taller than any building built. Made free,
O seer of the invisible, the terrible.
Made perfectly in the shape of a Rainbow
Broken only by your untouched self.

Made completely right, without another.
Image of a broken thing we discover,
Planted by its roots, transported there.
Love, light, meaning, wonder; powerful.

The truth might tell itself and know;
A being so wicked might still be beautiful,
Not worthy of to be forgot, nor lost,
And more than loved. Asexual.

And that our love has been so well-defined
A fire on our tongues that tells
Ever past the middle of the night, while
Some orbit crosses so we forget forever?–

I have seen that there is a place
Set upon the mountain’s face, and that
All good things do come to those who wait.
Even if our waiting’s blind, that this love

Made forever perfectly might
So suddenly soon become our Fight
To dance across the old dance floors
Shining in our best suits, of dark fire

Of dark amber blazing forever.
And this place I’ve seen is ours, untaken,
And as we decide How it’s growing;
As we pretend and matter more.

The walls are glowing, brick by brick
The statues have all come back
The ground is moving so minutely and
All our chorus keeps on singing.

O children, dance again. Dance again with me.
Your mother falls like snow to melt
Upon the graves where words have cupped
This water from the saddest storm

Of broken down machinery, of dying bees.
This wingbeat lasts a century, and more
The careful considerations of Our forever.

part I

below the moon is a murder

and blood turned grey

as yellow tape gleams

like memories

footsteps lifting in the breeze

in an overwhelming quiet

I sense the spiritual darkness

standing in disbelief

my senses can’t accept it

I never expected this

the statues gaze

and look down at me

as if I’ll move but they never stop

and the gravestones shine

some of them flat

lying there in the grass

like flowers

and all the faces are gone

the evidence we knew

that what we’re left with

the frigid stars only know now

like eyes

deadly looking down

in judgment of the crime

here in the graveyard

with the skeletons

I have to know

what transpired and why

like time

I’m left with this hole

emptied of my blood

and I can feel the shame

the thing the ghost misses

that makes it a spirit

and yet its name is missing

a dirtfilled mouth confesses:

“this is why I’m bound

and why my name’s forgotten

this is still the site

of my ruined constellation”

so the spirit is restless

entrapped within the stone

and the ghost is so unmoving

without a way home

part II

in the fresh rays illumined

the thick of the mist stops

and is pushed by the footsteps

like smoke around the graves

as I try to walk away

and change what I know

like a ghost thirsting for blood

as a human for the spiritual

with the dividing lines between

the midnight hours passing

waiting for the angel to let go

so the garden can keep growing

and the angel return home.

for in the dark I see a ghost

but look and see invisible:

as if the stone could grow

in morning light to meet

and change its stony shape

to morph from its odd center

the shadow it contained

and draw from every tendril end

the leaf that it would feed

and drown the soil dark and wet

to find the spaces pore through it

to sink the seed so deep enough

that hands that deep

have never touched.

for before there was ‘this place’,

one which we had never known.

and afterward, we see, it’s crumbled

petals before the thorn.

so, the spirit cold is left alone.

part III

discovering innocence again

playing in the hearts of children

the colorful memories move

and the shuffling seasons prove

the sadness ephemeral.

the houses that were empty,

full now of love and light so real,

where the spirits used to be–

set free to be and feel–

what was lost has come back

and I forget my every footstep

as sunlight meets us now

and covers all in wonder

in the beauty of morning

the dawning of forever

and blood from fingers mixed

the way the heart might sink

from its own weary death

and fall from its own killing hands

to be redeemed and given life

as we remember what we are

children of the higher light

dancing circles round the fire

kicking up the ashes of our future

til the statues quit dancing.