retreat

Everything I've written lately is bloody awful. I think that may be due to that fact that I was away from all of my loved ones on a decidedly strange journey for a couple of weeks-I don't do well when I'm unloved. Maybe I'm fragile, although I don't think that's quite the right word.

The point I'm getting around to is that I am posting a series I wrote around this time of year, two years ago. I wrote an awful lot during that time frame, much of which was shoved under the rug and never edited, much of which was lost crossing borders.

This is going to be a long ass entry for now...I may divide it up into separate entries later. I'm currently ambivalent on that; the poems can be read in any order, although they make most sense to me read in sequence, one to six.

These marked a major turning point for me as a writer. Rereading them, I see where they could have been better, but I'm very pleased to find that although the relationship they were originally about is over, pieces of them apply to the loves who have since come into my life.

one

Love is a disease which I’ve contracted,
convulsing heart attacking preconceived ideas I once dreamed up.
Love is aborting the concept of me.
Cement in place
the replacement: the concept of us.

Us.
Five letters, then six.
(You+me then I love you)
Never ending vicious cycle-
because cycles form circles and circles never end-
cycling emotions through the slide show exposition of my heart.
Fear,
hope,
pain,
joy,
frustration,
contentment,
uncertainty,
ecstasy.
These are the words that add up to love.

Six letters.
(Is six in a sequence of half its allotted existence-
3-
a bad number
with good intentions
leading to a deep fried eternity?)

Six letters.
(If I say them three times,
will they sour into evil repetition?)

Six letters.
My poems to you,
one dreamer to another.

Separated by six thousand miles,
we exist in the same prison.
No matter the distance,
we are held together by bright threads in intricate knots;
we communicate through writing
on the walls.
Time: new
Roman on the prison walls
all night and day dreams
mostly lost
in translation from reality to what passes for it.

Mathematics declares
my six letter affirmation of emotion is actually eight.
But physics isn’t physical.
Sigh, sign.
Contract the disease
and well live happily ever after till death, we wont part.
Well be buried beneath the poetrees
in a coffin shaped like an anatomically correct heart,
heart to heart well rot together and never part.
Then the goo oozing
from decomposing dreamers
will leak out from veins and arteries.
Love nourishes the earth.
We are love
and so are each other
and therefore
Love+us=a six letter affirmation of emotion.

two

My day and night dreams are the embroidery
whose intricate knots, bright threads,
are the delicate bonds holding the patchwork of what passes for reality together.
Bonds.
Bondage.
Dreamers are prisoners in a world they don’t exist in,
slaves to their own hearts and other peoples,
their own imaginations and other peoples.
Everything said,
done,
and especially written
is a unique influence on the open (third) eyed.
I am,
separated from reality
by a thin veil, hand written and reformatted in 12 point font.
Sign
of the Times. New roaming,
away from home away from home
because there’s no place like home
and were going anywhere but.
To build a new home,
built from 12 point font with a hand
written signature affirming the con.
Tract.

People leave home, early morning (late for work),
leave their parents home and build a new one
which, once established,
will one day be left behind
by children who move out
and pets who pass on.

I'm away from,
You’re building
home.

Everything begins and ends with words.
Poetry is the alpha and omega.

Everything is built with words.
Prisons,
homes,
careers.
Convicting contracts signed in blue-black blood promise money
(which is time, hours measured by wages
-of sin-
which is just a word,
like death.)

Money runs the waking world,
but that world is only the gaps between thought.
Filler;
fulfill me: dream.

three

I will use poetry to reinvent physics,
because physics is merely a collection of words
for the poet
to rearrange,
add to,
or delete.
There is no logic between atria and ventricle.
Physically,
two beings cannot
occupy the same juncture in the space-time continuum simultaneously.
But love makes two hearts one.
One (heart) beat for two melodies.
Our lovesong defies Newton’s laws.
We destroy the dark matter of our pasts,
we fill the black holes in our hearts,
we create new substances.
We are the dreamers of words
and
we are the writers of dreams.
We are eternal love.
Eternal love is worshipped
every Sunday morning by nervous people
who get up early
to sit with their family
and beg
for Someone’s love.
We do not get up early on Sunday mornings.
Robert Smith sings love songs
while lovers lie entwined loving eternal love.
Love is just a word,
the lyrics
of the chorus
of the song
of our lives.
The title of one leaf of poetree.

Dreamer, poet, lover,
you gave your words to me.
Lovesongs
poetic questions.
You’ve built half the heart pumping both our veins with 12 point font.
Will you
write a convincing contract for us to sign
when
and if
I help you write the story of our life?
Contract the disease
and Ill sign the dotted line for your prescription.
Give me words,
build my hopes,
tell me how you love me-don’t bother to count the ways.
Even separated, were never separate.
Defying physics,
love created new matter,
one heart existing simultaneously in two chests.

four

The first is the last and the last is first.
Instigation and termination,
the first kiss of a lasting love.
I can never kiss you enough;
I will always be responsible
for smearing your lipstick.
Then wait anxiously
while I am alone
and you are in the bathroom
making up what you want your face to be.

I don’t care what you look like;
the person you love is always beautiful.
In the morning the evenings eyeliner is smudged
and you are beautiful.
After your shower wet hair straggles around damp neck
and you are beautiful.
Before work eyes are shadowed, face is powdered
and you are beautiful;
afterwards,
eight hours of assholes has taken its toll;
your brown eyes are slightly red
and you are beautiful.

I keep pictures of you in my cell phone,
but you are engraved inside my eyelids.
Buried in my heart,
which is your heart
and my final resting place.
Love caused my spontaneous combustion,
knowing
I would fly from the ashes as half of you.
Love has killed me,
has killed you,
has birthed us:
an inseparable ying yang.
You in me, me in you.
Ying yangs form circles,
circles are cycles which never end.
The first is the last and the last is first,
every moment is the last before the first
of the rest
of our lives.

five

I do not expect anyone to like these letters but you.
You have enchanted me,
and under your love spell
I write
my own enchantments for you.
The most serious magics are written in blood,
and the same six letters are
pumped through our veins
by the one heart we share.

I do not understand
how I came to love you so much,
but the fact of the matter is
enough,
so much so that facts don’t matter.
How can matter be fact
when we create and destroy at will?
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
The fact is
I love you
and love is the only eternal thing.
After you and I are buried
the fact of my love will still
Be Written,
and as we decompose
what has
Been Written
will nourish the earth.
Lovers are more than people.
They are humans being perfectly human.
Forget the physical,
physics cant explain emotion.
Physics can describe
the angle at which I look into your eyes,
but it cant say what I see there.
Everything begins and ends with words.
Ideas,
relationships,
lives.

I have an idea
that this relationship
may encompass our lives.

I am learning not to fear,
but love is a ying yang.
Joy with a little worry,
worry with the joy you don’t want to lose.
These six words are my two hands,
stretched out for you
to hold,
disregard,
kiss,
or spit on.

six

This is the point,
not of no return, but of arrival.
After heartbreaks and headaches,
fear and loathing,
high and trembling hopes have been cautiously
born, borne
on wings of desire and dream.
Are you the instigation or culmination
of a dream?
You are lodged in the retina of my minds eye,
and I am
always sleepwalking through the waking world
in order to day dream of my dreamer.

My dreamer, mine
because of clever trading;
past for present,
secret for secret,
moment for moment.
Who doesnt have a past?
Show me yours, Ill show you
mine. Mine,
my dreamer, mine
thanks to tentative hopes
and the patience
to chase you down,
pin you against a wall
and mark my territory as Judas marked Jesus.

Though I don't expect you to be my salvation.
I am
my own knight in somewhat battered armor,
looking for a Camelot of my own,
a place to call home.

We live
in our own little world,
the endless realm of dreamers
(circular prison)
that the unincarcerated envy.
Never regret creativity,
just realize that not all creations are good.

We have created micro-macrocosms in between synapses.
Whole galaxies exist
between the lines
of our conversations.
I am beginning to discover you,
but time is short
and it is further than I think.

Father Time is a son of a bitch,
always running out on you
when you're happy.
YOU make me happy.
I will make Time stand still,
whip him into submission
and take advantage of him
to explore the universe of you.

But all good things must come
to an end,
and life is no exception.
Yes, beloved, the end is near.
All the worlds we create are destined
for apocalypse.
But now is not then,
and then
we will be other people.
My eyes will meet yours in a crowd
of people who wont understand
they're ignoring a miracle.
Love is miraculous,
and if we were other people
we wouldn't be afraid
to fall in it at first sight.

But I am who I am
and you are who you are.
Two poets dreaming
the writing on the walls,
five letters,
then six,
because three is not enough.
I a m
not enough without you,
I am
not enough without love.
Mathematic religion worships three,
but
I whisper six red poems in your ear
while we sleep late on Sunday morning.
I wake up early to watch you sleep,
to kiss your eyelids
and guard your dreams
like a blonde dreamcatcher
with smeared eyeliner and a sleepy smile.

Apart from you,
I stumble sleepily through a world
I didn't create
and don't understand.
I don't sleep well without your shoulder for a pillow.
Without your arms around me, life is cold.

I'm writing this letter to tell you I'm coming home.
You already knew, but now
It Is Written.

Everything begins and ends with words.
Poetry is not a luxury,
it is the only reason the world exists
between moments.
Yes, beloved, the end is near.
Love ends many things.