I'm a fanatical lover of language and always have been. I suppose that my future was foreordained, as my first word was not "No," or "Mom," or any of the natural choices. Rather, it was "book." I have been a voracious reader and writer, in one form or another, since I was a rather young twerp. I took up poetry in a serious fashion in 2009. My work is all about intuition. I know nothing about the technical aspects of poetry. As I recently prepared to undertake a study of rhyme, meter, verse, the difference between a "tanka" and an "ode," & so forth, I had second thoughts. I'm not so sure that I want all of that technical detail cluttering my head and preventing me from writing whatever my “muse may dictate. A huge part of the thrill of poetry is watching it form itself as it is written. I never work with a preconceived plan; whenever Pan comes to tell me something, I follow his lead: a rather amazing process. As a philosopher, I have had my fill of rules, planning, and having my work dictated, either by others or by the traditions of the discipline, as they have been established through the ages. If it feels right, I run with it. I suppose that I will allow others to judge whether they think I made the right decision.

Far Away, So Near

I am a creature just like you.

Constrained by the normal laws of physics, if not fiction:

I don't fly like Superman, nor am I at all the quotidian creature of the denial of possibilities.



I refuse the separation presented by oceans of fire or water.

A diurnal creature, at times, making soul visits to disturb your pellucid thoughts of flowing currents,

I am, likewise, nocturnal.

I pay my visits to you along a path paved with moonlight, in order to make both your body and mind vibrate with intimations of my presence.

Thus it is that I must refuse the boundaries of time.

I simply refuse to obey any but one imperative: my own, which is whispered by my heart, beating for you.



It is by this mandate that I seek out your flame.

I do so not in order to tamp down its formidable long-distance power to fire me up but to add to its fuel.

What better way to ensure that its power continue to disturb me, to disrupt the rhythms of my body, heart, and mind?



I come to deliver the promise of what may be, in spite of what has been & what is in the eternally flowing river of now.

Obeying the directions of this material world, the walls composed in such a fashion that I may not pass through them,

I nevertheless conquer the time zones, oceanic separations, and walls of rock in order to inhabit the reflection of your soul in the mirrors of your eyes.

I do so, because I want you to see yourself as I do.



Although I will not likely share that reflection with you in any ontologically full fashion,

Until the alignment of the planets in the name of YOU & I.

That day will come and with it, an epoch.

©11/24/10

The Geometry of Desire

I have witnessed desire as being-with-another in an entirely novel way.

Far beyond our quotidian notions of desire as need, I am speaking of an emotional and physical craving manifested on another level altogether,

This is desire conceived on a geometrical model.

I speak of desire driven by the exigency of having known one’s lover as if the two of us once, in a Platonic time before time, had been part one and the same being, forming the perfection of a circle.

If Plato conceived each individual as having belonged to part of an asexual/bisexual pair—part male part female—I can attest to the experience of just this feeling and not in some primordial soup but right here within the spatio-temporal confines of earthly Being and in a definitively sexual union.

For, I have no doubt that I have loved my pre-existential other aspect.

The perfection of our sexual geometry could be described in no other way.

The geometrical lines of our bodies were such a perfect fit, as to be inconceivable in any other way.

We loved each other as one, with no perceptible separation: physically, emotionally, or consciously. 

We were absolutely and entirely One Being.

Oh, the beauty of such love, expanding the average-everyday experience of sex to such an extent as to be all but religious.

We could exist as nothing other than the perfection of what we were in those moments.

Have you ever had such a union, communicated as a blessing?

Can you imagine it?

Can you imagine coming together with your lover as geometrical perfection?

Far more than imagining it, I have lived it, and no feeling of love—of loving—will ever quite live up to this perfect conjunction with another.

It is thus with a longing of once more living this perfection that I will exist forevermore.

In spite of this longing, infinite its depth, and therefore constituting a void in my body and soul, I would not trade the once having had of this experience for any plenitude imaginable.

I can do no other than exist in this geometrical desire interminable, and revel in the fact of having had the exquisite pleasure of my living of it.

For I have lived the expression of a love supreme, even if only for a moment in comparison to the impression it has made on body and soul, on my very conception of what love and desire are in their perfection.

Having once been exposed to being in this way for another, every other wanting for pales in comparison.

Indeed, it is longing for the reunion of our union—the elaboration of a new science of the geometry of desire—that the final breath of this earthly incarnation of me will be expended.

It is with the desire of again being joined with the once-having-been perfection of us—with the conjunction of the eternal paragon of my other and me, her other with her—that I will expire with a certain ecstasy.

© 5/19/11

Oh, But to Live a Dream: Suffice That I Shall Never Awaken, Part I

Was it only last night, that I had the dream…

…again?          

Yes, again, & oh but to do so on yet another, & perpetually

Yet, that is not to live; it is to simulate life, beauty, power, & love.

Yes, once again, I was beautifully haunted

It is the dream.

The dream, maddening & divine, Dionysian and Apollonian, equally visitations from the Gods

Overflowing with love, saturated with such passion & physicality such that one would swear to a bruise.

And, yet, ultimately, I awaken as if from an encounter with a specter, one who has passed on before her time.

Although, I know, I *know* that she breathes of the self-same air, which I take into my lungs

It is not an entirely foreign experience for me, when the Gods are smiling upon me, to catch her scent upon the wind, as if by simply turning around, my Being, with all its gaps becomes a full vessel

It is summer

This I can sense, June, early July, perhaps

But mild, not the suffocating heat

Yet, I am burning in anticipation of making contact with your skin

It is the perfect whether in which to allow for love’s elaboration,

A love so familiar, it seems to be sewn into the very fabric of time itself

I am intoxicated by it, deliriously succumbing to its passion & its peacefulness,

By *my* intimacy with it, immediate & unhesitating: a love supreme

The rush of ancient lovers reacquainted, ‘Eurydice, it is you. Here I am, Orpheus unbound.’

I catch the boldness of that scent, the fitting together off our bodies—our bodies in an ecstatic, ballet of movement & wildly controlled motion,

& our bodies entirely at rest, an endorsement of, perhaps the very founding of peace

This is the feeling for which I have sought from my first self-conscious moments; even still it seems somewhat tardy for the seeking

As for life before this, never can I recall such pervasive peace, & absolute certainty of protection, yes, profound safety from the vicissitudes of the surrounding world

Never, so I say; save in days prelapidarian, I cannot recall them, but am assured of our having been all the way back by the very marrow of my bones

These & other times, far more recent, are revisited in this dream, which I recall with a power so palpable as to cause me pain upon being met so rudely by consciousness

Something in the very fabric of the universe seems torn asunder

Life continues, as life does

Yet, somehow, time & space: right here, right now

Are less effectively real than that apotheosis of uncertainty: the rebus of the dream & its melting & cooling off of time

And of that dream, what can be enumerated, what *facts* substantiate it?

There is the fact of her smell; I *know* that scent, both in distillation & adulterated by my own

We have just tumbled out of the shower & onto the bed, making love

As iff we cannot bear but to imprint & be imprinted by one another, by the truth of *US*

You know of what I speak: the scents of fresh soap & sex

They permeate this sequence of the dream, this vignette

I can hear laughter, expression of joy supreme

I hear our celebration of ourselves:  a combination of sounds belonging to the ecstasies of our eldest ancestors, & another fully articulated & self-aware laughter, peculiar to humanity in its contemporary stage,

The directions—“It’s your turn to take things in hand.”

I hear my voice very clearly, teasing & full of the confidence of the loved,

“You’ve worn me out. El Maestro yields before the powers of his mistress,” I say the smile in my voice clear. “I’m out of tune. You will find a rhythm for us?”

“As you wish,” it’s her voice, as familiar to me as the sound of my own breath, & it resonates within me, as if seeking out the very core of my being.  “I shall SYNCOPATE your rhythm.”

Oh, how well I know that this falls within the lower range of her powers;

A thing more ancient than the soothing crash of waves against the shore on a moonless night insinuates this *KNOW* throughout my body

And I see, I see her hair darker than it ought to be because of the water it retains from our shower, it retains the fragrance of conditioner, yet is irrefutably her scent

"We" are watching now: watch!

She teases my chest with her hair, watching, I am certain

For my gaze is suddenly drawn to her hips, reorienting to the inconceivable warmth & wetness, so clearly a wetness of our making, a shower of love

 I could lose consciousness the power of this sensation is so overwhelming

I see my hands, palms facing me, as my fingers brush her inner thigh,

I watch my palms as I ever so lightly, & in direct contrast to the urge I feel to be powerful, trace my fingernails over her belly & up,

Until, upon reaching her breasts, I flip my hands over, gently pinching each nipple as I hear her moan deeply,

I caress each of them & know them; it matters not that her hair covers breasts & hands, as she watches herself reveal & envelope me teasing, testing speed, pressure, all variations

Goddamn it, she is teasing me, I can feel the extent to which she loves this power, in the tendons of her arms, which I am now stroking on my way to her hips once again, I believe I hear her giggle with delight & no small amount of devious intent,

Yes, she loves the power, even as she exercises it as a form of restraint, her special domain of power

My reaction to her body & our bodies together, retain the ability to surprise me,

How is it that no other woman has ever affected me in this essential fashion?

How can anything so sublime, so soft, silky even, & wet…

Wet as if from some inner faucet, which has awaited just the right touch, my touch & our encounter for ages

And having refused whoever may have tried before to force its will: No, means no!

No  question: there is a timeless sexual will at work, here: two of them

It knows me, just as I know it

Mine knows her, just as she knows mine

This faucet is now leaking,

Something of an understatement, as we are talking volumes, it seems

She has been this wet since I first touched her, days ago

Suddenly, I understand this

It is significant

But, *watch* damn *you*

Oh, I’m watching, watching the rise & fall of her hips

I’m watching what she is watching: my cock appears, then, at the very point when to continue her ascent is to risk separation; she slides effortlessly back onto me, pelvic bone meeting pelvic bone

I’m watching as she contains one hardness & rubs herself against back & forth against another, the commingling of our desires, mutually reinforcing, serving as lubrication

She rubs her sex against my body as I comprehend,  understanding traveling  through my body in reverse, to share  with my brain, as if I am noticing for the first time, how perfectly our bodies fit together, a perfection unprecedented: the architecture of eternity

I, fully erect & perfectly fit into her: wet, hot, & in the process of losing control of something…

Separate consciousness, that it what she, what I, what she & I somehow slough off, as if this were no more than changing…

I feel, then, see the tale-tell sign, a sign traced by her hips & pulling me so far into her that I want nothing more than to lose myself there

This movement she shares with every woman, & which, yet, she & she alone possesses the power to exercise over *me*

This is power expressed as conjunction, as the which comes together

Power accommodating of both *itself* & the *other*

I feel something deep inside, which is not me,

Nonetheless, neither is it not, not me

Yes, there are far more significant systems than those constructed by logic

Systems & relations that care nothing for your law of the excluded middle

Anyone who is willing to affirm either X or not X, as the only two possibilities of experience live an impoverished existence

As we remain together, I clearly & distinctly contain both A & not A,

Similarly, I am contained by B & not B

No exclusion, no otherness, only the joy of two become one multiplied beyond the universe through desire

However singular this may be, there is no possibility of refuting my total fusion with an *other*,

Which is not thereby simply appropriated to become just one more narcissistic instance of myself

Never in my life have I existed so fully as myself, never have I existed more fully than when conjoined with my *other* self, which, again, is not self-identical, never is life more fully itself for me than when with she

This is life *_absolute_*

Conjoined with beauty as *_totality_*

The goal of which is the creation of this…

This feeling, which has always been, however latent, however deeply buried prior to our discovery of one another

It is all so clear, now

I have always-already been in the thrall of this love,

Which almost certainly as a protective measure,

I tucked deeply inside of me, hidden even from the very depths of my *Desire*

For who could *know* that such a love as this exists, without yet knowing the object of this love & having actually experienced such sublimity?

I am now engulfed by a tidal wave of beauty, the presence of which I have felt ever since I first touched her hand

This power has further insinuated itself into the very depths of my core with each insatiable, ecstatic union

Until, it overpowers us both in the midst of our exigency, always expressing its purity as a negation of the addition of 1+1=2 beings; for I continue to insist that we are 1+1=1, for ever so brief & oh so long a span of metaphysical time

I can just suddenly, out of a silence of pulchritude, constituted by a peacefulness of sleep, one so foreign to me that I know straight away that the silence of night & nothingness will no longer have the power to reclaim me

It seems as if from this same silence, each of us “came to,” “came into being”

This was no recovery of consciousness; it was a recovery of breath, as if from a transplant, or the bursting forth of new life

My entire body communicates to me that she neither moved nor made a sound until a heartbeat after my own awakening,

As I lay in amazement, trying to feel, to listen, to experience *ALL OF HER*, all by myself, but never again alone

Suddenly, with surprising force, I heard & felt her chest heave upon my own & her starving intake of air, which I feared threatened to take in the very space we inhabited, & even me, my body, my being

Yet, this was only an illusion, created by her waking in the midst of my attempt to experience her

Then, a flash of white teeth, as with that newly drawn breath the 2 of us begin to laugh & play the games of lovers,

Still glowing from & powered by a glow emanating from some far deeper place that the capillaries buried in profusion, just beneath her unblemished cheeks

Our short rest now over, it is approaching evening

We are going somewhere,

Yes, to eat, drink, & be merry, all on our own

I feel her, wherever she may be in the house,

Yet, why, please tell me why, can’t I catch a glimpse of her face

Hidden, as if by a veil of penumbral haze, by the hand of love itself

But to what end?

©5/7/11

But to Die in the Joy of Knowing That I Pursued My Dream to the End, or Just the Beautiful Beginning

How poor a creature he must be who in his last moment cries out;

“But if only, I had followed my heart, eschewing the cold logic of my head and the creeping ice of the compartmented crypt so soon to be?”

I refuse that being.

I refuse his cowardice and the stale scent of the pillow at his side.

Rather, I celebrate my dream: realized!

I steadfastly refuse all issue of doubt:

Do you have any idea what you are in for?

Fools to have even asked—for my answer can only be a celebration of the equivocal—but an unprecedented celebration it damn will be.

Yes, I am ‘in for’ a love sublime, a love, which most will approach only in the perfection of nature’s allowance of the summer peach’s nectar.

What’s more, I am taking an adventure the likes of which would make a proud woman of Scheherazade herself.

Will I make it through the thousand and one nights?

Seek thy oracle not in this stone abode.

Will I live every night I have to the fullest?

You’re goddamn right!

While the life of the mind may well appear to be the apogee of human achievement, as it did to me, until a star taught me to dance; it is only through the chambers of the heart that transcendence sings its siren’s song.

Long live the heart!

­Mysteries, joys, pains, and all: glorify the hymn of love and of lovers!

© 08/25/09

                

A Conversation with an Ant

I engaged an ant in conversation at the corner bus stop.
I was patiently waiting for a bus to take me on a much needed trip to the moon:
A fact, I clearly averred aloud, for the next I hear

“To the moon?”
I discovered my interlocutor to be a black ant just a bit more than 6’2" below.

“Yes, the moon. That is where the #2 Yellow Line terminates.”

“Must be quite a view,” pondered my new friend, “the best I can hope for is to climb high into a tree.”

“Hey, when I was a kid I loved to do that: played Tarzan all day.”

“So,” queried the ant, “what’s it like, the view from the moon?”

“Interesting question,” I noted.

“Not particularly, rather I natural one I would believe.”

“Frankly, I haven’t the foggiest notion of the view,” I honestly replied.

Flushing in confusion as ants do, “Is this your first trip there?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” I laugh, “I’ve been there half a dozen times or more.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. You say you’ve taken a bus to…”

“Not always a bus. Sometimes I take Delta. Care for a nibble of this brilliant scone. It’s delightfully light and fluffy,” as I bend to share my treat.

“Thank you, but to my point, you’ve been to the moon 6 or so times [six legs, I can do six and six factored by two] and you haven’t bothered to admire the view.”

“Assuming there is something to admire,” I kindly suggest.

“You’re skirting the question, you rapscallion,” contributes the ant with a slightly raised voice and something like a sneer on its face-non-face.

Patiently, I explain. “You must understand that powerful drugs are administered so as to facilitate the body to radical atmospheric transformations, the red blood cells to their sudden deprivation of oxygen, the list goes on and on.”

With the grin of one about to deliver the coup de gras he asserts more than asks, “You must awaken at some point. Is that not correct?”

“Well, of course, by then I’m in Brooklyn, again. Right on time, #2 Yellow line, cherio. Perhaps you would like the rest of this delicious scone. Nice passing the time with you,” I say to him in farewell and gently lay the scone down.

As the bus drives off the ant ruminates. “That character…He just carried on both sides of a conversation, playing both himself and, putatively ‘me,’ the only ant I see. He earnestly believes that he just hopped a bus to the moon, in spite of the fact that he cannot testify, according to the data of his senses, as to ever being any further from Brooklyn than he currently is, because, conveniently, the space acclimation drugs don’t wear off until he has returned. What’s more, he gave me over half of this delicious, fluffy scone. That cat must be a card carrying lunatic. People are dangerous to their own health. Damn, this is a good scone.”

©1/15/2011

A Repudiation of Mendacity

I woke one day only to discover that my slumber had been long

Yet my eyes had never closed,

Life had been passing through me like a dream.

This is perhaps a convenient way to be lived:

But no way for me to live.

Yes, allowing life to carry us, dreamlike, through the world has many advantages.

After all, to what extent may one be said to be responsible for their unconscious actions, reactions, or inactions.

Is it my fault that the dream narrative did not include the provision for a more thoughtful, considerate, just persona than I?

I just allow life to pass through me.

Am I to impede the march of history, even on such a micro scale?

There is a great deal of baggage that has been handed down to me, the culmination of generations of psychic (de)evolution.

I must respect and honor this heritage, must I not?

I am, after all, simply doing things the way that they were taught to me.

Influenced, no doubt, by the Symbolic mandates of society,

Thus it is that life had occurred to me.

Until...

That day, on which I actually took the time to close my eyes and reflect upon my life, its long-term significance.

What I discovered was just so much more detritus and servitude.

This is when I set about to dispose of the dreadfully irresponsible ideologies and torpidity, which had provided such luxurious self-satisfaction and good conscience as long as I submitted to what others had insisted upon as my "oughts."

I began in the temple of "White Makes Right!" presented as “The Word Makes All Things Righteous.”

Timidly, at first, but finally in full voice I made my protest, naively believing that this may transform the first principles of the sanctuary's theology.

My first victory was to have refused their jeers and self-righteous rationalizations.

I walked directly out of that intellectual and moral prison, arms in the air, two middle fingers accompanying my departure.

Then, I took on the monstrosity of "You Either Believe and Act as We Do, Or Burn in Fire and Brimstone."

It does not take a theologian to realize how rampant the hypocrisy there,

Like that of my friend's mother.

Her daughter raped, pregnant, scared to fucking hell, and not knowing where to turn:

She chose the wrong direction, for the family could not afford the scandal of a child born out of wedlock.

Thus, in spite of their absolute theological conviction of the evil of abortion, not two hours had passed before my friend's mother said to her, "God's punishment for doing this will be to refuse you children in their proper context."

This judgment uttered as they traveled the two and a half hours to the nearest clinic facilitating the early termination of pregnancies: not my friends choice.

Thus saving the honor of the family, while destroying whatever moral fiber they may have to that point possessed, and leaving a large part of this friend, and not just the offending "baby," in Atlanta following the procedure.

Against this edifice of false beliefs and ubiquitous prevarications, I adopted a violent aversion, about which I refused to politely hold my tongue.

I read its foundational document for myself, which only confirmed my conviction that this was an institution corrupted to the core.

After all, just how many of these places could be cursed to the leadership of people who are either too stupid to effectively comprehend what they read,

Or what is worse, so infinitely cunning as to convince the multitudes that they are the only ones who may achieve effective comprehension.

One may suggest that a house built on a foundation of bullshit and mendacity is stronger than any building the foundation of which may be rock.

That would be my conclusion, based on the history of the Christian Church as an institution.

Having rid myself of this duality and Chimera, one endorsing the sanctity of the other, however implicitly,

I discovered the power of consciousness and responsibility. I experienced the joy of walking on my own, being neither weighed down nor led by the nose.

Long live responsibility, death to false consciousness.

© 5/19/11

Black Hole Sun (Title from Soundgarden song)


Damaged as if having been mauled by the face of the sun,
Just prior to its slipping off of the Western edge of the earth
Its chariot to exit for the remainder of the day

Alas, I awaken to another day
This one devoid of the sun, altogether
Sight remaining, nonetheless
Solitary afternoon of fake diamonds in the sky
Not even negative doubles of the sun
Thus multiplying angst and a sense of lacking an organic soul
No company to fill this gaping existential hole.

© 5/23/11

I Can Only Pray That It Be So


Oh what lifetimes have we lived in so short a span…

Can it have been only seven hundred and thirty days in duration, when it seems as if it has been eternal?

Who could have ever imagined the intensity, the beauty, the endurance?

Well, I did; there was never any doubt.

My introduction to love, it came late to announce its truth.

I could not have conceived of its power.

You must know that it remains steadfast,

To the sun, the moon, and the stars: to infinity’s end and back.

Can this loves cosmic existence be denied, its preexistence to any worldly knowledge of it, of our knowledge of one another?

I, for one, have no doubt of it.

I have never been so sure of anything in my life, certain even. 

Will Fortuna bless me with this conjunction with my perfect soul, yet again?

I, who pray for nothing, can only pray that it be so.

© 5/31/11

And Forever More It Will Remain


She came to me with the scent of patchouli

Our hearts in our throats, as they had been for a months

She arrived on a bird; I met her when she landed

Our first time face to face

And I felt a peace and oneness of the type I had only dreamed of,

Read of in books and thought was pure fiction

Yet fiction this was not,

I had never felt anything so intense: so real

When first kissed my Ka was sealed;

I had discovered my other half

This love had existed for eternity

Only it took us this long to discover it

This was my the dancing star for which I had no idea I had exited



I watched in awe as she lay naked beside me in bed

As she lay upon her stomach composing art,

Which never failed to inspire awe verging on the sublime

The real sublime, however, was when she held me in her arms

It never failed to make me think that there was never anything more divinely preordained in the history of the cosmos



She came to me with the scent of patchouli

A scent that suffuses my bed, my study, my entire being

And forever more it will remain.

© May 31, 2011

Taking a Chance on Beauty

I lay my heart here for all to see, but only one to possess

With the right eyes, you may be able to see the inscriptions seared upon my bones by your being

I insist you refuse all pity, if you fail to understand that the cracks, which proliferate my four chambered organ are no more than the places into which you have slipped your notes of everlasting love

The very notes the content of which often keep me slogging through existence in all of its cruelty


It is said that life is difficult; so it is

Many simply believe that the more one opens oneself up to its vicissitudes,  the more crushing it is

What they fail to comprehend is that without exposing oneself to such devastation,

One definitively closes the door to the true sublime: beauty and all its power

Such beauty, so much greater than any pain one may conceive,

Ultimately locks that suffering away, as if in an unconscious black hole

Celebrate beauty

Celebrate life

© 6/3/2011

Can You Withstand

The Paradox of the Eternal Sublime?


Have you ever in your life had such an experience as to have the entirety of your body overwhelmed

An experience perfectly summed up by the French term jouissance: an essentially untranslatable term

It indicates a pleasure the exigency of which is so intense as to all but fall into the pure manifestation of its opposite

Such an encounter with the perfection of the cosmos is generally a singular event

It is an occurrence the very intensity of which discourages the anticipation of its return

Nonetheless, the human mind is not equipped to protect itself from such stomach churning desires

If one is not careful, if one does not  master one’s conscious affects regarding this particular intensity of what must be the apotheosis of the sublime

There can be no doubt that the unconscious will take the driver’s seat, as it is always want to do

It will drive one into a perpetual state of jouissance, a state that simply cannot be sustained without the very real possibility of crossing the line between quotidian hysteria to full blown psychotic ecstasy

One risks encountering what is possible in his world only in measured doses

Or, is it possible to have such faith in contingency as to be able to sustain the paradox of the eternal sublime without at the same time departing forevermore with one’s reason.

© 6/3/11

CRASH

(Inspired by Dave Matthews song and someone whose impact surpasses the reaches of linguistic possibility)


I remember seeing you through the veil of time immemorial,

Like pealing back the layers of a rose and finding that one could do so for eternity

So quickly did I discover this immemorial

Washing over me: so much to say, so many ways to say it, and none whatsoever


Thus it is that you came to crash into me, like a wave of iridescent beauty

Transcendent to your core, and raising mine to levels inconceivable

Sweet like candy to my soul, you were

I knew, even without knowing that I had tasted the ambrosia of the Gods

A sacred taste that will linger through eternity, into the beyond of space and time


You scent, you taste, your touch, your Being awoke my every sense to things beyond this realm

So new, yet so old, I understood that the possibility of the impossible was within my reach

That once I touched it, I would never let it go, its having flooded my soul


Not as a possession, but like the breath of a blessing, sweet with jasmine and impossibility realized

So it has been, will be,

Will have been, throughout the ages, until the end of time,

Until I utter you name with my last breath,

As I remember, how you came to crash into me, baby

© 6/6/11