masterpiece

his charm is a soft blue moon,
reflecting with the secrets of our sweet stars,
an exquisite work of art,
enchanting happiness, peace-love;

his heart whose center is the spark,
treasure, a poem,
crystalline embellished glitterwords
feelings gently mirrored;

grown

suffocating
day by day
slowly, surely
into decay

oxygen leaks out
into ether
replaced by toxins
replenished by waste

the existential conundrums
as we hit fan blades
event horizons
in time-space

black holes,
our own egos
coming to pieces
at last

resistance is
relinquished
ripping atoms
in ecstasy

pushed over the edge
of the universal hotbed
we were birthed in
here –

– we are at Home
in this galaxy of lights
glistening at the
far ends of other

wormholes, warm and
whole, suckling at Mother
Milky Way’s breast and bawling,
“but, God! I’m the one

who tries too hard
because I don’t know how to be anything
but an authentic and sincere
sad son of a bitch”

how beautiful it is
to be cared for
and contented,
womb-like

nowhere to go
but to grow
up and out
and into this

C&C

 

It seems I can’t ever quite
hear you clearly, and I
never know if it’s just
the distance or maybe the
mountains between us
to blame. All the same,
the sound of your garbled
voice amid the static
is … … … … … … … … … …

(I always lie too much.)

Call it what you will,
but I like doing this.
Whatever gets me to the page.

I miss him.
I mean, he’s right here,
but rooms away,

locked and lost down
some hallway in his mind.
And, I bit all but one

of my nails off.
Nervous.
It’s that anxiety.

Pulling fistfulls of hair out
in the shower.
Picking at my skin.

I feel old.
Grandma-in-the-nursing-home.
Life doesn’t seem real

some times.
How does it
keep going on?

How are we here
on this clear day with
blue skies and

wisps of white clouds?
Forever looking out windows
and writing…

What was that affirmation
I was supposed to
say out loud?

“Let God work through me.
I’ll take care of the quantity.
He takes care of the quality.”

Mother Mary, may I ask you again…
everything…and you’ve always
obliged, always provided.

I wrote poetry just for you.
Whole pages filled with
proclamations, declarations,

emancipation from the world
as I knew it to be, into worlds
just waiting to be known.

Just keep going,
just keep writing,
just keep filling the page,

always, always, I say!
“Edit,” but, I never do.
I stuff it full.

More always, always,
to-the-brim-stuffed.
I always like too much.