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I have, I think, afforded every opportunity that could be reasonably expected, to judge of my credibility.

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Have You Ever Seen A Cat That Could Dance?

I don't remember a witch
...but there was a black cat,
who sat down beside me
and told me that -
'This cat has strong legs, and the love of thrills'
'I like to climb things - including hills'
The story smelled fishy, not what it seemed
Truth better than fiction, who would have dreamed?

'A lovely wee cat, a lovely wee kitty
so kind and so playful, but most of all pretty'

Have you ever seen a cat that could dance?
to writhe and wrigge, wiggle and prance?
What a sight to see, for you or for me
my eyes became locked and wouldn't come free.
But that was the plan, from start until end
to hook me with dance to make me a friend.
This cat was not mean, this cat was not cruel
this cat was amazing, pretty and kewl!

Now the plan has succeded,
and we are together.
The pup and the kitty,
forever and ever.

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Hard to forget

It is hard to forget
Equally painful for memory to let
All come and invade like flash light
Stay for a while and go immediately out of sight

Many more years may pass
They may excel in their field and show class
But alas! I am lost in mass
The place meant for me and was

I shall be no more
But I do keep them in mind adore
They were friends and needed therefore
I shall hold them ever and for ever

We might have fought and clashed
Disregarded thoughts and smashed
Soon to come around and sort out the difference
Shown the respect and drawn the correct inference

I shall soon be gone
The destiny to be reached and flown
Yet you all may remain in memory
What more can I feel and regret except sorry

You were available at every opportunity
That chance was afforded by an almighty
I could excel and show the best quality
That was seen by me in your ability

I shall remain indebted and grateful
That you have rest of days as very much successful
Life is full of enterprises and adventures
We are the master of our own future

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I think it is ironic that many of the leaders in technology were adopted.

I think it is ironic that many of the leaders in technology were adopted. Every one raves about how Steve Jobs put so much style into the apple; he turned his computers into an esthetic work of art, as well as into a fluid experience of joy; thus transforming both dimensions, making the out side experience as beautiful and wonderful as the inside, from a machine that was thoroughly repulsive to the vast majority prior to Steve Jobs. As people we wish the outside of our life was as beautiful, cooperative, exciting and rewarding as how we imagine it, as how we experience it on the inside as well as in moments from our depths.


We wish our inside could be understood by our loved ones. We wish to understand others seemingly incomprehensible emotional states. This is never more real than in infancy, as children, and later as teenagers. What Steve Jobs did was pure alchemy, on one level he was trying to bridge the gap from the lost part of himself, to make himself as attractive as possible to his miss attuned parents so that they would take an real interest in him. He attempted to decode what seemed to a child his parent's senseless emotional algorithm of being emotionally unavailable into something comprehensible. He also made something very distant assessable, complex codes to be memorized with great labor into a mouse and images, where one simply points and clicks.


He got the love, the admiration from many that he needed, he far out reach most, becoming an icon, but the child in him yearned and created the emotional attunement he never had, in both the inside and out side he had made himself through his products as appealing as possible, towards the end his exterior persona started to fade, and he could not maintain his brilliant performances, ironically for once he could experience the unconditional love on the out side and inside for who he was without having to physically dazzle and brilliantly perform. For once he would be loved for who he was, not for the dreams he could fulfill for others.

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Every Poem That Is Not Written

EVERY POEM THAT IS NOT WRITTEN

Every poem that is not written
Sings another poem
That is not read.
And every poem that is not read
Waits in its own silence
Until
The Universe itself
Becomes Poetry
And God sings to us
As if we too
The poet and the poem
Were the singer and the song
Unknown.

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Trying to Leave the Pain

i think of you and every one that has hurt me and lefted me in tears
as i slide that blade across my skin
i think of the pain they all have put on me and on my heart
i think of leaving this pain
i think of every thing that has hurt me
so lost in my mind now
so confused
so much pain
dont know what to do
sliding that blade on my skin
more and more
faster and faster
trying to leave the pain
sighing with hurt
my heart beats faster
still cant stand the pain
i stoped the blade and moved it away from my arm
and slide it across my neck

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Suitcases Don't Have Wings

Small bags big bags
Black bags white bags
Suitcases hey hey hey
For work and for play
Crammed full of things
Suitcases dont have wings
White bags black bags
Complete with one-way tags
Dragging us down
Ever closer to the ground
All the time they sing
Suitcases dont have wings
Big bags small bags
That behind us we drag
Past present and future
We cram so much in n' gotcha
We've been forgetting
suitcases dont have wings
All bags every bag
That we painfully drag
Drop them at jesus feet
Cause all ur needs he'll meet
Suitcases hey hey hey
They get in the way
Drop them if you want in
Suitcases dont have wings

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 15: When I consider every thing that grows

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheerèd and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

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Writers block

At times I say to my pen
write dear pen
and scribble or scratch,
but whatever you do
write down words
and make sweet poetry
out of them.

But the pen lies silent
as if it’s ink is dry,
like a broken violin
that cannot play anymore.

So I go to my thoughts
and say think dear man
and dream and sing,
but I have forgotten everything
and every hymn
that I use to know
is gone out of my memory
as if it never was there.

So I try to dream
and to see pictures
of scenes of how
the words in the poems
should be,
but they grow stretching
away from me.

So I talk to my Muse
and no Muse answers me,
but when I pray
a thunderstorm flashes past
and words comes gliding down
like drops onto a thirsty soul.

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Tired Of The Rules Of The Game, I Sit...

i like to think that i owe no one a favor,
and so i refuse every opportunity

that i may derive when i give favors too
to another,

it is this way that this world looks upon
an investment

say of emotions, when one scratches your back
you too must give

her itch a scratch from you fingers
i hate this arrangement but this is how this world operates

mind you, i get tired too, having no one scratch my back because i
refuse scratching the back of another

at one time, i sit on the grass of a busy park,
looking and so blank and dumb, feeling that i am not a part of

this world, its rules not getting fit for my wholesome existence
away from independence into a world of flattery

and utilitarianism.

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First Kiss That Could Have Been A Big Regret

I am sorry that we can't be.
This is not about you, this about me.
My inner insecurities has mad me realize
that there was no hope to define.

I turned life into a pathetic dream,
a dream that could never be.
I don't know why I tried
when I knew that nothing would be alright.

All I did was hurt myself, when I knew that you
were not worth all the heartache or the time.
I might have been the one
but I guess we will never know.

You never let me show you
what you meant to me
but now it doesn't matter
and I am sorry that you could not see.

I wanted to give you my first kiss
but I am glad that I didn't
because I don't
deserve that kind of regret.

God loves me and that's all that counts!
I don't need you to bring me pain and doubt!

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And All That Could Have Been

Breeze still carries the sound
maybe i'll disappear
tracks will fade in the snow
you won't find me here
Ice is starting to form
ending what had begun
I am locked in my head
with what I've done
I know you tried to rescue me
didn't let anyone get in
left with a trace of all that was
And all that could have been
Please
take this
and run far away
far away from me
I am tainted
the two of us
were never meant to be
all these pieces
and promises and left behinds
if only I could see
In my nothing
You meant everything
everything to me
gone fading everything
And all that could have been
Please
take this
and run far away
far as you can see
I am tainted
and happiness and peace of mind
were never meant for me
all these pices
and promises and left behinds
if only I could see
In my nothing
You meant everything
everything to me

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For Every Moment That I Live

You've changed.
Like the summer heat...
Leaving to linger.
And remembered as one walks,
Through the ice and snow...
Brought by Winter,
And left on City streets.
To then bring Spring scents...
From budding flowers smelling sweet.

You've changed.
Like Autumn leaves in October breezes.
And teasing with anticipated holiday treats.
You've changed like the seasons.
And captivated I am.
Without one disappointment...
I observe this and agree.

And I love them all.
Every change there is.
And I love you here in my life.
For every moment that I live!

You've changed.
Like the summer heat...
Leaving to linger.
And remembered as one walks,
Through the ice and snow...
Brought by Winter,
And left on City streets.

And captivated I am.
Without one disappointment...
I observe this and agree.
You keep changing on me.
Like an adventure that excites!
With your delightful love of life!

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It Comes For Me So Easy

If it was not easy for me to give...
You would have never known my face.
Or the appearance of it shown,
As often.

I do not try to grace you with impressions.
This is who I am.
Being me with you in my thoughts.
Being me wishing to offer to you,
Something from my heart.
Something that is genuine...
You will know from the start.

And it comes for me so easy!
Just like the breath I breathe.
Just like a tree that is there,
For what it does.
For what it offers.
For what it is.
There to give!

I want you to be aware you can depend on me.
But I don't want you to think of me as an obligation.
Waiting there from you to receive.
Not me.
I appreciate you too much.
You are life.

I want you to think of me,
As being there...
Easy!
As a part of who you are!
Since you will always be,
There for me to give.
And I can't think of any opportunity,
That comes to me as easy.
Knowing my life,
Means more than just for me to live...
With you making it easy,
For me to give!

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The only Way to go.

Some choose to grow old quietly
but others take a different view.
They chose to live disgracefully.


Why should you give up having fun.
Because you’ve reached a certain age.
There are still things you haven’t done.

You want to do before you die
Though your time may be limited.
You see no reason not to try

To make your madcap dreams come true.
Why should you sit and vegetate
as other folks expect you to.

You are the captain of your fate.
So you can do what you want to.
Tomorrow may be far too late.

So do it now immediately.
Regardless of the consequence.
What does it matter anyway?

Society may not agree.
You have the right to your own view
Choose to act disgracefully.

You’ll find that life is much more fun
than sitting watching the T.V.
Show the world you’re still someone

Seize every opportunity
that life’s prepared to offer you.
To shock your neighbours thoroughly.

They choose to sit and wait to die.
You choose to do the opposite.
You won’t surrender easily/

But fight until your final breath
because it is your nature to
Although you know you can’t beat death.

You know that one day you must die
but until then you choose to live
Just as you wish disgracefully.

01/09/09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

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I Might Have Been Queen

(j. obstoj, r. hine, j. west-oram)
Producer: rupert hine
Albums: private dancer (84), whats love got to do with it (93)
Remixed by chris lord-alge for the whats love got to do with soundtrack
Im a new pair of eyes everytime I am born
An original mind because I just died
And Im scanning the horizon
For someone recognizing that I might have been queen
For every sun that sets there is a new one dawning
For every empire crushed there is a brand new nation
Let the waters rise, I have ridden each tide
From the gates of the city where the first born died
And I might have been queen
I remember the girl in the fields with no name
She had a love
But the rivers wont stop for me
No, the rivers wont stop to me
Im a new pair of eyes, an original mind
With my senses of old and the heart of a giant
And Im searching through the wreckage
For some recollection that I might have been queen
For every sage that falls theres an ancient child
And I might have been queen
I remember the girl in the fields with no name
She had a love
But the rivers wont stop for me
No, the rivers wont stop to me
I look up to the stars with my perfect memory
I look through it all and my future is no shock to me
I look down but I see no tragedy
I look up to the stars till I find my destiny
I look up to my past, a spirit running free
I look down, I look down and Im there in history
Im a soul survivor
A soul survivor
On the river
But it wont stop

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Light, Salt and Love

Friend, let the Light God put inside, be a witness that’s not denied.
Witness for The Lord Jesus Christ; a witness of your newfound life.
Friend as you walk through the night, allow others to see your light.
Light received from The Lord above, so that we can share His Love.

A life witness is what men need, when God’s Word they don’t heed,
In our life, these men need to see, the Light of Christ not you or me.
Allow your life be living proof, of the changing power of God’s Truth.
Your walk of Truth may just inspire, men to make Christ their desire.

Is your new life attractive to those, who hear The Word and oppose?
They oppose The Truth you proclaim, refusing to embrace His name.
Every opportunity that we approach, we need to be above reproach,
So we don’t bring the Savior shame, when we witness in His Name.

We are told to be Salt and Light, as witness for men lost in the night.
And salt must maintain its flavor, to draw other men unto The Savior.
It is when the saltiness we lose, that our witness by others is abused.
Friend your salt is only useful then, to be trampled under foot by men.

Love is how all men will know us, and The One we have come to trust.
For it was God’s Love for all men, that sent His Son to be condemned.
Condemned upon a wicked cross; in order to save a world that’s lost.
So allow your love to shine my friend, so Christ can become their end.

(Copyright ©02/2006)

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The Little Engine That Could

This song was first released on the all aboard! album. it is the only album it has been released on.
There was a little railroad train with loads and loads of toys
All starting out to find a home with little girls and boys
And as that little railroad train began to chug along
The little engine up in front was heard to sing this song
Choo, choo, choo, choo
Choo, choo, choo, choo
I feel so good today
Oh hear the track
Oh clickety clack
Ill go my merry way
The little train went rousing on so fast it seemed to fly
Until it reached a mountain that went almost to the sky
The little engine moaned and groaned and huffed and puffed away
But halfway to the top it just gave up and seemed to say
I cant go
I cant go
Im weary as can be
I cant go
I cant go
This job is not for me
The toys got out to push but all in vain alas alack
And then a great big engine came a whistling down the track
They asked if it would kindly pull them up the mountain side
But with a high and mighty sneer it scornfully replied i
Dont bother me
Dont bother me
To pull the likes of you
Dont bother me
Dont bother me
Ive better things to do
The toys all started crying cause that engine was so mean
And then there came another one, the smallest ever seen
And though it seemed that she could hardly pull herself along
She hitched on to the train and as she pulled she sang this song
I think I can
I think I can
I think I have a plan
And I can do most anything
If I only think I can
Then up that great big mountain with the cars all full of toys
And soon they reached the waiting arms of little girls and boy
And though that ends the story it will do you lots of good
To take a lesson from the little engine that could
Just think you can
Just think you can
Just have that understood
And very soon youll start to say
I always knew I could
I knew I could
I knew I could
I knew I could
I knew I could
I knew I could
I knew I could, yeah!
Words and music by william may and warren foster

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Reflections Surreal

I remember so well seeing you for the first time
Laying my gaze upon your youthful and oh so tender flesh,
Little did I know such a beauty would bloom upon the
Journey of adolescence. Little did I know that you
Would breathe such fresh breathe into my world.
I remember so well knowing you for the first time,
Sitting besides you in the classroom of our unwinding,
Asking you what it was you worse beneath the cloth
That hugged so tightly to your figure that I little room
For reason as lust and trust in instinct were united in a
Lifetime of maddened passion enflamed. Nothing would
Have been the same if we had kissed and always will I
Feel as though it was something that I missed, for you,
Your were my first blue, the abyss of blue out of time
And place. Now full of faith in destiny but still unsure of
My face I remain a fool upon the hill, masked, triumphant
In some insane mockery of knowing through imagination
The touch of your lips upon my skin. Let me in, Let me in.

I remember so well having you lead me upon a leash upon
The stairwell towards of destination, I remember well the
Way I felt when you could rest your thighs upon my knee,
When you would please me unknowing with the most uncomplicated
And miraculous of smiles. I’d walk miles upon my knees to be beside you,
Just know that that you are there in essence, breathing beauty into
This world of ours that once glowed so green. These days industrial
Tones alongside industrial stylings derange the aspirations of dreamers
Who try to imagine the horizon beyond the cooling of the towers?

I remember you worrying about your future,
I remember how I felt knowing that you would never imagine me beside you,
Lying awake, naked in your arms, the dream did me more harm than good.

To be your butler, to be your slave,
To wade upon my knees and savour the scent of your presence upon the breeze.
Alas how I felt when you would pass me by so easily without an ounce of
Desire enflamed within your eyes, so insecure was I, in such a confusion of adoration,
For you incited in me a passion out of fashion with my age and you would not believe me.

I would never deceive you,

I remember awaiting you sat upon the wall and seeing you stride upon the path
Looking unreal in you perfection as if some surreal reflection of a goddess incarnate
Had penetrated into this world of mine. I remember playing guitar to you, and I know
How much I would love to play for you now, how I would love to relive our time together, prefects with badges to prove our false authority, but loving the joke, you and I
Looking after a class of young and hopeful rebels. I feel hollow within the memory
Of missing every opportunity I could ever imagine to kiss you, just once, simple and
Uncomplicated, a kiss, a kiss, so bliss I may never miss out on again.
All I ever dreamed of was to know the sweet caress of your palms upon my form
All I ever dreamed of was shelter in your arms from the storm outside a raging.
Enslaved upon your knees in plastic iron, resembling some fair maiden from some
Ancient act of seduction portrayed. Oh how I wanted you to want me, How still it
Would make me cry tears of joy within to hold you close against my skin.
Let me in, let me in, let me in to your memories of I,
Let me sail the ocean of wonder I perceive within your arms,
Always feeling as though I could never deserve you
Always hoping that throughout the mists of obscurity
You would stride out stretching your arms to me and
Help lift this burden of mine and beseech to me your carnal wisdom.

I wrote a song for you
I painted for you
I thought of you always
And never did you know.
Never did I get to know your caress
Never did I get to know you undressed
Never did I get to bless the day I slipped between your thighs
Waving goodbye as I would to skies of bleak unknowing.
Show me the way; reveal to me your heart.

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‘Aywa’; Oh Yes: Iowa

On the Green Silky Carpet,
Bride of all brides,
Walk slowly and Proudly,
On the Green Carpet,
In a low voice,
I heard myself singing,
With trembling lips,
I was singing calmly,
After a year of continuous crying,
But I am no body's bride,
And I intend not to be so;
My bridegroom was pushed to go;
To leave this life a year ago,
To leave me dreaming
To continue the journey;
The road
All alone,
Just a week before our union
Could have taken place,
And I exclaimed:
‘How weird this life is’! !
When the right man appeared,
He was forced to disappear,
Why? I really do not know! ! !

Finally, I learned how to keep
My expectations low,
Yet, I was chosen out of all
Visitors of the American Conciliate,
No body from those
Who licked the floor;
No one from those who compete;
For the Americans' love,
Was selected,
Yet I who said no
To their policy,
Was asked to go;
To be a member of Iowa's
Program for writing,
What? !
The total death of DEMOCRACY
Is not yet complete? !
Has its brain died,
But the heart
Is not yet! !
It still beats,
Who knows?
I replied with a big 'NO',
I could not travel
All of this distance alone,
I asked myself what for? !
They insisted…I yielded,
Arabic modesty, decency,
I felt shy for
They solved every problem
Every obstacle
That could make me
Hesitant to accept their offer;
To make me see Iowa;
To mingle with people there,

I consulted Fatma,
My former Egyptian instructor
And friend,
Whom I could keep
For many years,
Her words for me
Are far more precious
Than gold,
She studied in Iowa,
Her Ph. D was about Defoe
And Moll Flanders,
She once told me
‘People in Iowa
Are true liberal, ’
Though we differ
Every now and then,
This never touched
The essence of our two free spirits,
Nor our friendship,
She advised me to go,
Not to hesitate and to accept
The generous invitation;
Not to loose a chance
As such,

I said to myself:
‘Nothing to loose anymore’.
A quarter of a century ago,
I wanted to study
For my M. A in Iowa,
But was accepted in Denver;
Life's ways with Nadia,
I chose a British supervisor
Who worked in Jeddah
Instead,
Much later I became a distant learner;
I chose Exeter,
As a temporary exit
Form the invisible cage
Of femininity in a man’s world,
My Ph. D thesis:
I s on Faith & liberty
And my models are
Arabic and British poetesses;
It is an important topic
To women as well as men,
In today’s confused world,

Now I’ m invited to talk
About women’s freedom,
And position in Islam;
By a woman priest in a Church!
She is doing what I did and said
In my poem: “ The Spiritual Link”;
Most people care for humanity,
But in politics…well
No comment.
Here I am hearing
Myself singing,
But still my voice is low,
Amazed from myself,
As the case always is,
I looked from the tiny window
Of the tiny airplane,
And I saw the natural GREEN CARPET
Down there with yellowish ending
Just like that of a velvet skirt,
Before, I was so sure
That America is not my 'cup of tea',
But now I am not that sure,
I have always liked the countryside;
To live in a place so green and wide,
And here I am in the midst
Of green hills,

I asked myself: what am I supposed to do?
Trying to investigate,
To dive into this mind;
Into this heart
Of mine,
I began to think; to ask
What made me sing in the first place,
And why was it this song
In particular? !
Who is my new BRIDEGROOM,
Certainly not a human being,
To find a true mate is rare,
Life can not give me again
Another man who can
Share my spirituality...
My intellectuality,
In Vain,
Is it self fulfillment?
Well, I am done with that too,
Is it publishing my new book;
It is for and about him,
Well even this is not supposed
To make me sing,
I am far beyond happiness
Or sadness for simple things,
While I was still singing,
The airplane landed
In Cedar Rapids,
‘Aywa’; Oh Yes I like Iowa,
Yet my questions are still lingering
In the air.


(27 August(the beginning of the poem in airplane) -30 Sept.2005(The final touch on the poem) -The River Room Iowa House Hotel.)

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Patrick White

I Miss You

I miss you like a burn victim misses his face, misses the sky he used to wear like skin. I think I'm dying tonight; Friday night, wandering from unfinished room to unfinished room, trying on coffins, looking at death in the shedding mirrors, wondering what my life has amounted to, a raindropp in the desert, trying to green the hourglass time raises to its lips, twin goblets, drunk on sand. I want to bleed like a bell for the unfathomable reservoirs of human pain that have yet to be endured as the original tears of life, the rocks weeping, and even the mountain eventually burying its proud face in the hands of its valley. I have heard the stars weeping, and been crippled by compassion for the wounded rose of blood, all the petals and eyelids and tongues that have tasted themselves on the thorn. If I have ever been a lantern on the road, a star you could follow home like a river, a tree that stood over you for the night, a shadow that summoned you into the light, black honey buffed with the flowers of revised constellations taking their seats in the revolutionary parliaments of the night, now I'm a kind of indecipherable braille hanging like black holes and severed chandeliers of pleading cherries beseeching wicks and filaments from astringent space. Look at what life has done to me; look at what happened to the candle. O just once more to yearn like the moon for a beginning, for an eyeless passion that hasn't seen itself out to the end like a ladder of worn thresholds ribbed like a man. I have drunk from the fountains of great teachers, great spirits, enormous suggestions of the soul that have emptied me like the echo of the world into a vastness as impersonal as the first word of creation and I have tried to be brave enough to see deeply into the night in my voice, the clarities and luminosities that have their seasons in the high fields, the wells that lament the aging of the morning brides torn like tents, the cocoons of the light abandoned like the exhalation of a last breath, I have tried to add my understanding like a planet that could thrive like a torch in a mansion of secret wines. I have tried to say whatever I was becoming without wringing the moonlight out of the tide. I have not lied about the poppies in their dream gowns of evanescent fire; or transgressed the humble shrines of the grass, or forgotten the progress of the girl robed in swans and willows in the eyes of the crone. And I have been withered too much by suffering to be flattered by the tendril of my name growing like smoke on the lips of the seeds. I assumed my throne like a pauper where the fire burned the clearest, and established the realm of my seeing in the crumb of a dream I rubbed from my eyes whenever I awoke to the illimitable domains of my nothingness. And I have counted the prophetic skulls of the demon moons as if they were a forbidden rosary that pearled the darkness, and been amazed at my affinity for the hopelessness of their vilified freedom. I sleep with an eyelash like a sword between myself and evil, one fuse unlit, one world that hasn't gone off like a rocket at Halloween. But when I consider true goodness in others, cooling like sweet bread on the summer starsills of their openness, I am always left feeling dangerously intelligent by contrast, and lacking, as if all modes of virtue were the happy sluglines of compromised yesterdays I use to start fires in an iron heart on a winter morning. Though I be condemned to the subtleties of the most intimate torments, incommunicable agonies of erosive condemnation, there is still a lie I won't tell myself to be worthy of heaven, because I will not dust the earth with my wings, I will not corrupt the integrity of the suffering of my humanity with any paradise that isn't born of its substance. I will not fail the rag of my poor flesh even on the eve of defeat, the tattered sail of blood that turns this boat of bones into the wind to come round again in a salvo of ferocious defiance. A gesture of the air, no doubt; a lethal folly, but the plank of my nature. So keep your angels away from me until I am a peer of the struggle, until I have won a parity from intensities I could never defeat. Until my humanity is an indelible word in the mouth of God, an ink, a wine, a thread of blood, that stains the lips of God with the inexplicable mystery of my contradictory existence. So much undergone, so much of becoming and transcendence embodied and dissolved in the shapes of shadow, blood and water, and love through it all, tears and laughter, the mingling of illumination and eclipse, one firefly of the spirit thawing glaciers and fierce eras of brutal evolution, one thought snuffing the stars like an eyelid. I love the heresy of vaulting the horns of the moon, the first and last crescents of the dilemmic parentheses that enclose me like an aside to an actor prompted offstage by the whisper of his own understudy dying ambiguously in the very next scene. What's a flower, what's a life, but a play on tour, directed by the cuts and takes of the wind and the light? Everyone in the audience, alive and wounded, sentenced, is on death row where every star that shines through the bars is the sprinkling syringe of a fatal injection, or the motherlode of the mystically deranged.
I miss you. I could love you so perfectly; even the errors in harmony. I could be the pillar of a temple of water; I could be sufficient for your sake, a curtain of shadows on the moon to cool the hot swan of the light that sails through a window wide as space. I could be something more in your presence, something I've never been before; the whole cosmos out to the most estranged star, hanging like a dropp of water from a heron's beak, a witching-wand that trembles with watersheds everytime it divines you. I think of gently taking the moon in my teeth, of kissing you on the neck behind your ear, of the season in your hair, the supple concession of your lips, undoing the star yokes on the beast that draws the wagon of this corpse to wander off road in the bestial freedom of its ecstatic vagrancy. I could know you like a fish knows the moon, underwater, could swim to you from here, or rise to your hooks as if they were stars, and swallow, or be a dragon heaving off its lake like a robe of water with wildflowers and the open eyes of the rain shaken from the folds of the eclipses and eras of its wings. You could empower me to risk an excruciating excellence of devotion; an eloquence and exquisitivity of perception that would compel my eye to turn the light around and look inwards like a black hole for the firefly in the casket of its telescope. However far I walked through a desert of lunar salt, excoriated by ferocious purities like a bone with the wind for marrow, no two footprints of mine would ever be the same, nor would the moon, so much like the heart, ever drink its own commingling of light and shadow from the same cup twice. I think of the things that could be; the air saturated with light trying to fall like rain; the blood efflorescent with poppies, with gypsy profligates, outraging the startled goodness of the wheat by dancing lasciviously with fire. Out of the air, out of space, out of time, living on nothing, I can almost make you happen before me like an event so intensely imagined the curtain had to open on a troupe of improv stars on tour among the constellations. The abyss of an eyelash away, I can almost touch you, taste you, feel you reach out for me like a bay of space, hear you call my name like a homing bird sliding like love-letter under the doorsill of the wind. Grief can call people like that, but it is love that is the gate-mouth of my answering, it is love that conjures you out of this galactic cauldron where I cannot pull this sword of light from the stone of my heart like a letter without bleeding like a crimson sea of candlewax to verify the seal of your enthronement in the kiss of every impression. The truth is too brief, and the lies are too long to be the suitable luggage of love. I'd need something like a seed, a cocoon, an eye, a lantern, a star to travel radiantly through this darkness as fragile as a kite held aloft by a feather of fire, my spinal cord in your hands, or strung across the musical snakepit of a lifeboat guitar like a powerline, or a clown riding the bicycle of his glasses. The seas once gone from the moon, love alone can keep the whisper of water alive.
I saw the full moon in the window through black winter branches, and I thought of you in sadness and love, and wondered if your eyes fell upon it like rain as mine did.

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