An Opinion

for Jess

I am perfect
in the presence of

your throne: Your
neck set to let

the twist of my own
encircle it, your kisses

as my own, soft
and stallion and gold

set before an evening's
moon: The sweetness

of divine love cloaks
my heart with devisiveness

only as long as your
soft arms and open legs

and full embrace
bring forth from all

that I intend to
the carnality of act,

whence the annihilation of
unity is just another way

of building some unity
of a different order

as our disjunction, for we are
not the same, but in

appreciation apprehend
the workings of nature

and of novelty in each
our bodies, that we fit

together in ways that
flirt with opprobrium

yet skirt its edge
to opt for sapientia,

that sophia be the home
for my tongue, as

your love, my truth
is the almost permanent

shy and emboldening
glance by which my

wide forehead divides
your jungle palms

like gentle Ganesh
whose trunk then

caresses the full length
of your pussy with

several feet of
rippling muscle, while

in the interim of new
sensation, the curious

mouse of my middle
finger squirms a knuckle

deep up into your asshole
and is chosen your

disciple: No way. Or way
up under your cotton

clutch, up near the high
canopy of trees, I

smell your nipples getting
hard, what the villagers think

are stars: I know how
to make their brightness

burn even more
brilliantly: Just to taste them

and attest their
sweetness to the assembly

of selflessness, and bite them
with my deer's teeth,

pinch them with my scales
of golden carp: See how I

decorate you with sense?
We are fated to be

annihilated by love, then
only return to the place

where we left off: Me rubbing
the rough camel's fur of

your crotch, and you
watering down the sleekness

of my dolphin's cock: Ordinary,
temporal life. If for a moment

I could not make the glow
of my marrow clear to you,

my life will not have been worth
the years of keeping it.

Fate forever rests its finger
on the soft lip of a laughing

set of teeth. The happiness
of throwing open the palace

doors to behold a lover
who to you is slightly

foolish, yet loveable for his
quickness, and his ability

to control his own shadow
is itself the City of God,

my intellect and your deep
soul that can never now

be separated. Ill temper?
I doubt it. Even at my end,

for me to have the audacity
to turn from you toward

the scythe, would be fickle,
stupid and immature, for

in my life with you, I see,
unavoidably, no mistake.

Thus, should I not live
forever, as my cock in great

glorious push clothes your
pussy in the sash of

its own incarnation,
and lets me to be in it?

The lover obedient, always
to the one s/he loves?


*

Basileus

for Jess

Our graces who may
call to mind all that is

not mind are they
for whom the spaces

between all things
are residences of'

love which we can
feel surrounding

and invading our
total silence when we

do not speak, by
choice or accident

it does not matter:
Surroundings are

of inconsequence
in the first and final

kiss that's realized
forever in the only

place close enough
to know this real

intimacy as, yes:
The very thing

to which the body
rises and sees

the ripples of its
hunger, taking not

the bait, or baited
by no trap, but

simply breaking
the surface of what had

previously been
the looking glass that told

perfection to rest easy:
There is no easy rest.

Even wet lips take
all the effort as to lift

an arm flawlessly in
dance or abiding gesture,

as your face, or mine, also,
are flushed by

all we cannot name
and thus feel, totally

"in mystique", as black
moths smothering

vast midnights where we
sleep, entwined

of wings, of fins, birds,
fish, beings without

rational symptomology:
I am a small white

stone that expands your
pussy, you are a ball

of gold that makes my
heart more dense

than my tongue in
your cunt is currently

able to tell: Delicious
knowing that we will

"never have to start in
with the erotic stuff"

since it already is, the pure
weight of your breast

in my hand, or fiber
over fiber under palm,

your lovely calves,
the top of your foot,

your arch that I pledge
to kiss until desire

finally stops my heart
and brings my subtle

art to its unreasonable
end. But need we

think of death? No.
We need think only of

blackberry juice
smeared on your buttocks

and licked off by
the only tongue capable

of leaving in its path
the clear outlines of

Egyptian representation,
the Ra boat of your open

pussy: Sunshine
superman. I like

Thomas Vaughn's sense:
I think it were more plain

and to comely capacities
more pleasing if I

express myself in this
popular, low dialect.

In the Temple of
Nature, I join your

doctrine. You are
green, and never

wither. On your knees
spread slightly, you

take my cock in
your mouth, let down

your panties half upon
your lovely thighs,

and play your fingers
over your clit

and pussy, sucking on
my cock to draw me

forward onto the bed of
Active, Intgelligent life:

Your vessel waters,
and then it is

water, itself, as our
legs and faces go

twisted and unnatural
as from some magical

equation: Fear not.
You pass through my eyes

into the eternally here,
and I see through them

as they see me: I love
your riches, of course,

in each and every
manifestation. But I

cannot covet, neglect,
corrupt or assault

in opportunity, but that we
construct a room,

a house, a life
together in which

through my heart is,
passage to the you who knows

the room there is for
her, the luminous, the numinous,

toward which always
I remember, and am glad.


*

Steve Miller Band / Jet Airliner

Diamond Hard

for Jess

Be soft and pliable
openly, without

a carapace, always,
yet know the shimmer

of the sword
you must immediately

draw against intrusion:
Not bronze or brass,

not decoratively held
aloft in the usual

male threat mode, but
know your silver

and have it: The moon-
reflected lake,

the slow gravity of
river deep emotion:

The flow of blood
through your body,

quickened, gives
piquency to your

delight: Your best
defense is your

sensuality, which is
not in your body as much as

it is a condition of mind:
Visual imagination

you call it. Image-
driven, you are

a lovely complex of
occasions, none of them

easily named. This
is what I love, first

and foremost, of course
with all the rest.

Your regard for the world
yields all the surplus

one could ever need
in order to feel that

their body is a house
to which one can be invited,

in which one can live,
simply, with another

as themselves: Me,
myself and I, or, I

and thou. As simple as
drinking a glass of water.


*

Rehabilitation

Disraeli, Gladstone,
Balfour, Churchill:

Even Roosevelt
and Stalin, the whole

Fabian socialist
group, who are not

socialist, but fascist:
Prescott Bush, Joseph

Kennedy, Averill
Harriman, et. al.

And of course, John
D. Rockefeller. Even

John Stuart Mill,
enthusiast for individual

liberty, thought that
colonial intervention

was not only okay, but
necessary, in cultures

in which his own concept
of western individualism

and its attending
liberties, did not pertain

to the extent that these
peoples could be fully

thought of as a functional
part of human society.


*

Adoration

for Jess

The childhood round
of making the rounds of

each secret spot
made magical, just that

no one knew either
where or what it was,

is now in memory
an analog to how my

neck twists down and in
on your own, to smell

your fragrance, to feel
the line of your jaw,

lick the lobes of your
ears, not that different

than the childhood militancy
visited upon Big Rock,

Little Rock, the Hollow Tree,
the Place Where Only Moss

Can Grow: All that can be
in perception of the land

is all that can be in
the touch of my hand

on the surface of your
body, and beyond, as you

show me, yes: Suck my
fingers, lick my palm,

open your legs, that
I may rest my palm on

your sweet pussy,
and rub it, so that, like

Aladdin's Lamp, it gives me
three wishes, maybe

a second three, and even
three on top of those

so long as my fingers
do the right thing, one

on either side of your
lips, opening them so I can

begin kissing your clit
and deeply licking the wetness

from the throb of your
bright cunt: I want my

head in the fernbeds of
your lowlands forever,

darling one, darling apple
that when halved

shows itself to be possessed
of the five-pointed star

we all know as Aphrodite,
aphoros, bright, white,

as the foam of the sea
from which she emerged,

as frothy as the creaming
energy that shakes your

thighs and belly when you
come: Foam up around

my mouth, Padika, and push
your pussy hard against

my lips, that they be
dressed by your elegant

honey: I want to feel
the gravid storm of

your tide when your quim is
in my mouth, to nip it

with my teeth, hear you
moan as my finger

snakes its way a full
knuckle up your ass.

How literal and childish
and beautifully inventive

is this way of speaking
of the light that only love

can bring forth! For you,
my balls are moss-covered

rocks, and tall grass
spurts out of the end of my

cock: I want only
to nibble the spore

from the underside of your
fernbed, each sticky

leaf, and every spore
that sets my soul on fire

and makes me want to
feel you come on every

part of my body that I can
put inside your cunt,

or rest on its open lips
in order to feel you cream.

Exploration, we call it:
My hands are those of

the man that grew from
the boy who learned

every ounce and hidden
piece of land, who could

divide the grass, that
the sun might lightly touch

the ground below, who
found the cicada in

the leaves of birch, who
basked in the dappled

light come through
the forest's dense canopy.

You, too, have a dense
canopy: It is your psyche,

resilient yet thick with
its own insistence, to be

naught but who you are:
You are glorious, a beautiful

flower, and among the smallest
cosmic particles: You do

exceed my mind, but
in light of immediacy and my own

desire, I remain overwhelmed,
knowing where to touch you.


*

Reminiscence

for Jess

I always thought
that any world lived

with others would be
as problematic as

certain veins in my
arms or the backs of

my hands that rolled
under needle: Sometimes

I had to give it over
and have Muhammad

press the spike down
hard onto the vein

or hold it in place with
his thumb while

slipping the needle
in. But that's

somewhere deep in
the past, foreign city,

foreign substance,
conduction in a language

as familiar as hieroglyphs:
Someone's got their

hand on my belly, I'm
not on a bed, I can't even

see the ceiling, yeah:
All of that. I never

thought of it as trouble
until the convulsions hit:

How sweet it always
was, to be blasted

and dream of sex,
or the alalog to sex, more

drugs: How hungry
for replacement can

a person get? As long as
the replacement replaces

who you most literally
are, then replacement

goes on forever. I
died of it. But not quite.

My soul died, but
my body superceded

life's necessities
and pretended to have

survived. And so
it survived. That it

survived life's joy
is the one grim aspect of

getting clean that nobody
can either understand

or stand. It's just
too easy to want to feel

good, in the simplest way
available. No. Or

yes: You have to be
bearable to yourself.

First you have to
survive yourself, then

you have to have your
survived being become

bearable to yourself,
and then you have to

live lightly and tenderly
with all of it. How I am

with you is, how I am
with my own being.

For all the years of
broken life, now I know

consistency, as painful
as it sometimes is.

I discovered this
on May 20 with you,

and I've felt and known it
at every waking

moment, from 2 PM that day
through every passing "now"

all the way to these words
and this present writing.

That it will go on and on, is
that it has gone on and on:

Lay back with me, and let me
listen to your heartbeat:

The consistency of your rhythm,
the permanent light of stars.


*