Would you want witness
the sun’s transformation
~
of the bird? How brilliant
heat helps her
~
wings unfetter. In the warm
kisses of the rays radiant
~
splendor, she unfurls: straightens out
her tail, expands
~
each wing out in a salutation
to the reflection of waves rippling
~
in the sky. Balancing perched, almost looking
like a scissor-tailed flycatcher ready to
~
soar as a crane would in a welcoming
gesture of aerial gymnastics.
This how the angel
dies, those frequent little deaths,
then rises to the humid
~
sky. But before she
ascends, her hands
~
finding every dip and divot:
divine desire. You tremble like
~
Mount Vesuvius, afraid of her
power to control pressure, she is
gravity. Heat like waves
of bodies in motion.
Some voices are
mute: silent
under the nervous tremble of
the eye studying the terrain of this
~
tiny increment of time. A moment’s
silence is sometimes the only voice
~
that should seriously be considered
as the truth of not speaking: the things
that you wish you could say. How if you could
have just one more minute—because, before
~
you were too scared by the sounds of it—you
would write it out so completely.
Silk and linen makes slow swells
and waves down the crests and valleys of my
sanguine honey-sun- kissed skin. Flesh is
that current coupling desire
and pulsing the pressure of pleasure
into that atmosphere
engulfing every second that ticks
in the mind. Feel breathing
on the inside of your thigh. Rise
and fall each divot on the terrain of tingling
touch it is nothing short of divine dizziness.
Mouth swimming each slow deliberate breath
on the sweet salt of sweat beading
on your side. With a deep swallow
in diving, now we fly our limbs over
the humid body’s horizon. The only sounds
are vapors of God.
There isn’t going to be anything
but uncomfortable celestial dancers
~
orbiting each other as if they could
defy gravity. The quivering of skin
~
is panic that the pressure-gradient force will
be changed even slightly in some way. A variance
~
in pressure across the honeyed supple surface
then indicates a metamorphosis in force,
~
which can result in an acceleration
according to the laws of motion. A quickening of
~
the body is a sincere correlative to—
in the same direction as—the momentum
~
acting on the body, and contrary proportionally
to the body’s earnest resolve… if there is no
~
additional force to balance it, the force will
cause the bodies to collide,
~
despite any will or better judgment.
Me? Now you need to be quiet and
listen, I’m the type
which is disconnected
from the world so intricately connected
it is no longer has connection
with itself. There are fewer and fewer
stars at which to gaze, so I close my eyes—
to use ones belonging to the mind—in search
for any vanishing heavenly body, while I double
over in the direction of my navel. Silence
mothered me over the years, and taught me
the lines to draw quiet pictures. It’s clear, the sky
has grown indifferent to chiaroscuro. So I sit in
wonderment of the lines and movement of my own
body as I redefine the purpose of shade. Throwing
each line out from my most passionate embrace
so this can become the prayer connecting with some
Gods in the vapors I breathe and then I can
see. There’s always a choice of which light to take
in the darkness of ruminating desire
for beauty—beware there can be
something disdainful lurking in a thin form
of shadow, still, and quiet like the silence of a word
that should have been spoken, so I have to choose
the enlightening of my blind lines wisely.
She says, the stars
have told me that angels do
die, and,
dear, it is
your time. It all starts with
something unknown. Hours of fear
add up the ones for contemplation. A stretching
of sorts, or maybe it’s a rebirth of
some kind out of a taut wound
cocoon. How many animals make their
own cocoon? Truth and answers to questions
rush out of that cramping in your joints and get lost
in the space between the stars. In that space
that just looks like emptiness, but it looks
that way because of our own lights blinding us
from the stars who are always there
in light, but just invisible,
despite the fact that they’re dead. Dead like you.
Dead like me. We may have different dyings,
but the things we dare carry with us, inside,
so they can only be felt—when staring quietly
at the stars—make of the you and the me the common
people cry. The redundant story goes, covet thy
neighbor’s wife, you are a mortal sinner. But
the coveting is not as superficial as lust, saving you
from the Scarlet Letter being branded
on your chest. There is no one
interested in that type of branding any longer.
Actually, it is a common contemporary desire
to turn oneself into a brand for consumption, and scarlet
went out with a different summer’s moon fashion.
So what does that mean? The sin lays not in coveting
the beautiful, rather it’s in the
denial of beauty. Fear should be
a cardinal sin. Somehow, sweet angel, the world
imposes the definition of ourselves on us, and it can
be an unpleasant task to redefine anything. A culture
of Headlightgazers have replaced most all
of the Stargazers in the world,
so they designed the world
in the image of Ego
and Destruction. The typical response
to the environment we created of ourselves
is fear and denial. Remember that
there is never a promise
of tomorrow, you only get the moments
in front of you. You only go blind to some
of it depending on the type of lighting that you use.
