I'd know your thighs
And decades from here
Since you wrapped them around me
Peppered me with baby kisses
And the hot heat of summer had its way with us
I know the weight of your feathery limbs
Like my own skin
Loose with years
And freckled with anticipation
So don't worry
Time is like a child
Crying in the corner
Because he didn't get his way
While we make love up against the back door
Our pasts pounding from the other side
Begging to be let in...
I've never been to Minnesota, yet I feel a connection to this cold state next to the Great Lakes of the Mid-Western region of the United States.
The state has two capitals or are they two capitals? I dunno. They are called Minneapolis and St. Paul. It’s not an isolated delusion. There are places the world over where people have never been yet they feel the call- the call of the native that lives there.
I know a person in Minnesota. She has made Minnesota what Minnesota has become for me: a lovely place besieged by aggravated externals. Sometimes the beauty of a thing is its very anonymous being. You don't know what make-up goes into the creation and existence of that thing but you don't mind. Its beauty captivates you, drives you, inspires you. All you have is a name and an image.
That’s what I have of Minnesota. An image. It lingers and hovers around my space, my subconscious space.
A part of me wants to materialize it. Another wants to keep it the way it is: an unknown entity that speaks, cajoles, confides and embraces me.
A man's wants is endless. His methods for claiming it, ruthless.
She knows a place called Bhutan. She knows a place called Bhutan because she knows a person called Bhutanese. The Shangri-La has become a living, breathing person for her. The beautiful thing is that neither has ever set foot on the other. Or known each other eye to eye, face to face, being to being.
That’s how time and space become meaningless.
It tells us explicitly: know the mind and the mind shall set you free. Reality truly is in the head of the beholder!
The falling snow is a trillion finite shards of insulation glass
Setting in motion natures supreme police state
If I were to run out into the city street, it would only be a moment
Before I was covered in the blood of my own revelations
There are candles on every table
Like fairies bound by spiders threads
Floating in the purgatory of their tiny votive heavens
I want to blow them out of their misery
A man sitting across a universe of candlelight watches my silence
His mother waits for me to respond with perked ears
She’s standing in a room just beyond the pacific, where
I can't hear over the fluttering singe from burning wings
My fingertips are secretly searching for a safe place
Like the celestial home of each other's print
A thin veil of skin separates me from god
One pearl equals my life
Of all the grains of sand and bits of broken glass
You opened your mouth and let me inside
I feel an angel’s chorus fill a tiny pond in my throat
And a flood beyond the capacities of the deepest ocean
Tears through the water color images of my deserted history
I would never have even known how to pray for this...