A shadow on the Sun sets fire to the Moon

Through the invisible barrier
Between me and my wildest dreams
He sees clearly
And calls me in the middle of a thought
Breaking up the clouds
To show me
How.

He draws an elegant map
With all the starts
And forms the finish—

Energy reader
He sees me
And hears the discordant engines
My mind runs on
Soothes them with 
Just one slip of his tongue
The cogs then sing
In a tune
One I could listen to
Cycled on infinity—

And that's how you write a poem
About someone
Who makes you happy
For once
And only now
I realize
I've been fighting
My whole life
For control
Over this vessel
But I hand it over to him
Willingly
And sleep, finally
Knowing

With certainty
No better hands exist.

[If this seed bears fruit
I'll know because I won't ever need to tell you.]

The act of breathing

You cannot love someone 

unless you're willing to be destroyed.

Love is humiliating,
juicy, dirty, sloppy;

I guess what I'm saying is,
I want you to cum on my face,
Then keep on fucking me
From behind,
Hands tied.

Spark

Lit by the attention of a fire-wielding stranger
Piercing through dimensions,

How admired 

Was our otherworldly glow

Ablaze with the audacity 

Of temporal earnestness.

Between gentle forefingers and thumbs,

How tenderly we were held

As we burned to blend with the earth and wind;
How fast, how fatal, we were loved.

Taste This Perfect Offering (Hebrews 10:5)

If I called them by another name
Could I make saviors of these demons?
What is sacrificed, what is gained

This alchemy is for the sake of harmony within

If being a woman in the world is painful enough
Why bring a child into it?

Adjusting will for equilibrium

I choose to use it for creation

Of my own secret weapon
Receptivity is an action, neither passive nor inert

Oh, Kindly Ones, taste the sweet burn 

Of nitroglycerin upon your tongues

As I secrete my inexhaustible sense of self.

Joy

With transfigured gentleness
She parts with a loving kiss
Fortune already in flight
In a moment of bliss, she is absent
But always returns holding hands
With sadness.

Untitled

A dog trots beside its owner

Like a well-trained soldier
The metal tags around its collar jangle
In syncopated rhythm 
I hear this with my human ears
And wonder how mine must sound
In the celestial realm.

Barren

Spring brings a fog

That cradles our belief

That home is not just an elusive boundary
Of imagined comfort and safety
An illusory hope, a mirage
But one we manifest concrete (or so we think)
With four walls, a two car garage...

The dead of winter clears the mind

Time slows, allowing for new sight

And we remember this is our sickness unto death;
Just like Thomas Wolfe said:
You can never go home again.

Return, return in the fall I did

To see what I'd left behind

A full season between us 

I walked for miles in a straight line

Searching the shore for your black truck,

Trying to imagine what it was

That had made you love this patch of beach so much.

Ready to give up, I rested by the surf to watch the osprey hunt

Many moments passed, yet none appeared

And I thought to myself,
"I'd never go fishing here."