Thursday, November 12, 2009

Oh My God I'm Feeling.

Out there, people are trying to shake the idea
Of God down,
Make him come out of hiding;
Scream hallelujah
And hope he will illicit something.
I, on the other, or one
Of his or no one’s hand(s)
Stumble across old or dusted fates
Try to decipher, try to


Because suddenly, there is a break
In my wing’s wind
And there is:


My clocks fall from their walls
And I am deep in your hands, in
Their hands,
The mastered clicking, setting, interrupting hands
Displaying our only minutes.
But I will not refuse them our
Presence, here, in the quiet
Between pressing breathes and
Warmed lips.
The clouds are parting, the
Gods are shouting for our
But we, but I, am too apt
At ignorance
And instead, fumble over
The lightening rods being hit inside
Every strand, every colored vein
In my being when your
Soul brushes mine.
If this isn’t fair to them (to whom? To everyone excluded. To everyone.) and the
Stucco ebbs of pre-war buildings
Fail to house the growing
Pound of what fills my heart
Then so be it that the open sky
With all those
Brilliant, pulsing stars beating
Down on the most beautiful,
Ugly comforter you ever saw,
Be our only cover.
Be it that the trees are the only ones who understand
The way in which I sway.
Be it that the tides are the only
Motion-fueled creature who
Understands my lack of bounds for this.
Be it that every sheer infinitesimal fiber
Attach to every cell of my skin to
The foundry that birthed and forged
Your very being.
Be it that, so let it be.
Please, let that be.
For with every well-composed work
Of prose comes five dirt covered
Chapters beneath
And with every mussed, dog-eared
My fingers only long to turn
Them over in you more;
Tired of ever counting
Clear indications.
Should it be that those
Who believed They were making
Us, made us, then, so be it.
If whatever hands, or no hand(s)
At all, took a handful of
Flower, concrete, and soil and


Then by Them, by God,
Those hands created me.




I dig first into your

(you nipped your lip a bit, and too hard, and so allow the crimson) red,

Fleshy skin, and with my broken fingernails
Softly peel back
Piece by white, smoky, sultry
Underneath, each individual
Pulp converges with the sudden
Gasp of air, releasing also onto
My fingertips their fiery dye,
Running down my palms, to
My wrists, then finally,
To my lips.
Small, teardrop seeds scatter
About, each new, airy, open
Shows the signs of the pulp
It had just housed, now blood let
And without weight.
The inner flesh carries the
Great shape of the inner,
Wonderful, cavernous workings
Of an (artichoke) heart’s soul.
And with each smooth, bulbous, bursting
Pod I remove, place gently,
Let burst suddenly, behind my
Teeth and with my tongue,
Feel sudden, feel tart, feel cold and close

And yours.

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