I can fall into you.
Being with, holding
you
is like holding the sun
except that I'll welcome
my atomization
and joining with
the rushing plasma of your star.

Pill bottles are aesthetically pleasing, difficult to open, and contain worlds of wonder and terror. Pill bottles are aesthetically pleasing in that some of the older bottles are of a particular brown hue of glass, the color of which is quite soothing when seen in the sunlight. The sunlight, in its turn, fades the label on each bottle, turning it from a stark black on brown or white paper to something more of a grey on tan or acidified-yellowish background. When combined with the brown-tinted light that flows through an old pill bottle in the afternoon, the result is delightful, as you most certainly know. The cork stopper, from cork now well over a century old, rests easily in the lip of the bottle, its job of protecting the contents of its particular bottle from the ravages of the outside world long since finished, it sits supreme in that accomplishment alone, knowing that it has reached, in the world of cork-bottle-stoppers, a state of Zen, of being in the bottle, yet not being necessary, yet still serving a purpose (that of an aesthetic which the cork cannot hope to comprehend)  to both the bottle (keeping dust and flies out) and to the trained eye of the viewer--for there is nothing as terrifying as an uncorked bottle or a lidless box: what remedies and secrets could have escaped from these containers? I need to stop writing now and continue this in the morning, but at least I have a good start for...well, an essay for class, actually, so if this doesn't make very much sense, then I apologize. Sorta.

"Fist, stones, batons, and the gun...with courage we shall beat those Blackshirts down!"

"Ghosts of Cable Street."-The Men They Couldn't Hang.

A Poem with Rumors

Probably one of the worst poems I've written in some time.


He carries a gun
I hear he's a Satanist
I hear he's a virgin
I hear I hear I hear
and I realized that responding
would only fuel the flames
so
I went back to fucking my lover
back to thinking about Sufism
admired my knife on its small shelf
and hugged my love close
to bask in her being.
--
This poem is admittedly horrific.
Tough, as they say.

Ex Oblivique.
Oh, there is no joy in it anymore,
the thought of getting drunk and painting
until I'd painted my way into a corner
of something superior by Velazquez.
Painted my way out, out, out
of a piece by Whitman or Frost.
Painted my own exit from here
and that there is no joy in this
in the thought of escape...
couldn't make me happier.
I love being here.

But blood for blood without remorse I've taken at Oulart Hollow

That's all.

Desk, a horrific bit of poetry, because I'm tired and pants.

The desk is clean
except for a tea pot,
brown with blue flowers,
glazed,
and two tea cups,
small, china, also with blue flowers.
And the Buddha,
with a mala around his body,
keeping it safe and serene.
And my talismans
totems
and charms on the shelf above.
So perhaps the desk
isn't clean
after all.