On women (at night); Manhattan, KS

Sometimes, anywhere, in transitory shadows which linger,
certain secrecies will form between a man and woman.
If you remain within these alleys with certain women,
life sometimes will remain, and it can not suffer, nor die.

Nor should it ever die in this remarkable age and town.

(every city is chaos in twilight, dark and touching;
remember the yellow and orange lights which invade night,
like angels speeding to enter the once and mythic hell,
the night which will forever and always keeps its first rule:
that all lovers will awaken and swoon.
-this is just a city, one that remembers.
forgive its endless turns and its endless round-abouts.)

We should do a very small justice to remember
its lovers, against lamp-posts, in cracks and in dimness,
eternally against black alley walls in forever white,
rubbing sex against the miniature wealthy,
in their white sophisticated collars. Or,
the dirty and remarkably strong hands, which,
more than often reach, reaching. . .
(poor servitude and poor belief should never forget.)
to forget the shuffling footsteps of commonality,
the shrugging shoulders of our spirituality,
the proud mysteries of our delicate and forgotten merchants.

macro

Increase the Earth's worth. Children should never grow up and become what we are now.

And If I am sad, frail, and a little bitter, then, well, February is indeed the grayest month.

Let us, you an I, give space for the sun. It will gladly rise up in the darkest winter months. Give it room for attack in a frozen sky. Some months will freeze breath in winter, freeze life on earth; but, the Sun will make beauty in a smile, an embrace - radiation that will warm our petals.
Let no sun error in what is proven: a road to redemption, physical mortality, in a pervasive mind and languished heart; let it never freeze.

And out footsteps will run wild with the beginning of that Star exploding.

I expect this already, tomorrow; let me tell it while i am still able

Expect I will want to imagine much, much, more:

I often make room for illustrious daydreams
in which I handle your superior mouth intimately.
I have already thrown your teeth to the ground
where you become a rich world beneath me-
a federation of forests, fields; the future
constructs of human development.

I expect that you will return to this world,
gullible to the green and fair,
spreading your familiarity of stars in night
and what it means for us to examine deeper.

You will return to this world to humor me;
tax my body in a field of green,
watch bluebirds search our bodies,
search the body moreover, close eyelids
and give me a fresh recollection of my purpose.

The Sun is increasing its final joke,
and death will remember us
until we finish with it and consider
that insane imagined death of Christ,
the one we all receive in the end.

I expect this already, tomorrow:
you will agree with me on a narrow street,
cover up my teardrops with a kiss,
spread your legs, swallow apologies,
sweep away fingers, release cries-
thank me for the slow thoughtfulness of my love.

daughter

I imagine men, such as me, have often stagnated in future visions and promised desires for mankind. The many are abandoned for the greater glory of immortality, creating a theology out of our pure minds. But you are rested in the sacred place only a daughter or long-time Pillar of love may preside, deep in a changed man's heart. -No promise of any god or any man's Heaven rest there in me; that was given up long ago and replaced with a kinder, more gentle outlook towards Our eternity. This place is far from the youthful wanderings between good and evil, Woman and Man, daughter and father. It is universal and anticipatory, and it is the beautiful beginning of it all.
----
No Man Really Knows, but I'd like to imagine I do for you.

Positions

This is where I learn to live -we all live.
Right here, tenderly in the width of our hands.
Pre-prints moving us the length of crooked thumbs,
Indicating our short and severe primordial lives.
Maybe elsewhere, behind knees we find our beginning.
-If it is kissed just so, we will unlock the mystery
of our collective and bent history.

This is where we create and dissolve. We all.
Within thighs, the art of this world is lost somehow.
There is quickness, a sudden Supernova.
Then there are other positions,
in which we point our determined bodies.
Time is plenty for stars to be born and to die;
we have only the brief moment to do the same.

This is where we learn to die, involved lips;
in our hanging mouths we trace Aquilla
with stupid tongues speaking less than courageous promises.
Perhaps we all will be cup bearers during the Sleeping Time,
Dark Star moments, when we are fragile positions in the night sky.
-Pin points for future lovers.

. . .

This is a familiar story about life. This is not about exceptional talents or passions, for I believe one can find that in almost everyone, myself included. Instead, this is about exceptional difficulties or ridiculous challenges, such as a father’s death. But, perhaps none of this matters; nothing as simple as death should matter. After all, it is as apparent as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.


Father, you are such a distant memory. Yet, nothing can solace the profound heartache of my forgetting you, often. And if often is not enough, then what absolute time can I offer. -It is not your long life I celebrate, but the death of you that raises new possibilities. Such as, a child’s soft face or the flower’s occasion in a winter’s reprieve.

And, now, I know what it is to feel alone. And I know what it is to think of you, alone. -Are soft faces or open flowers keeping you busy . . .

And, are there ever times when you forget me, often?

I watch over a house of men

I watch over a house of men. These are not ordinary men. These are men whose dreams are forgotten on us all.

What do they dream about, these roosted men? Perhaps, through their faltered language they insist on quiet and pervasive dreams. Yet, their phonology and semantics fail me. For the life of me, for their life, I want to understand.

Perhaps, one remembers a picture of his mother as a child, “Big, Big woman –little, little girl. Where have you been?”
- - -

When I’m asleep, I may dream of a girl with long brown hair. Do I sleep on it by mistake? What is her name? Will the name precede mine one day? And so forth. Sometimes, these are the things I dream of when asleep in the house of extraordinary men.

You will grow old. You will be forgotten.

This is mine to tell: when I’m old, I will be forgotten.

- - -

My name is not important. It hasn’t been since the Romantics. Besides, this is about you and not me. –Once, you had luxurious hair and you had love. You had a pink face, like the pink on a Valentine’s Day card.

But there are fleeting things you did in youth; such as, kiss your high school sweetheart on her deceitful lips, fall drunkenly into a stranger’s bed, or remain deep in a woman long after she abandoned you. These are the things that you did in youth, which make you old.

However, the sadness of life is there can be no sadness. In the hopes and expectations of childhood, you never had examples of love. From the beginning it was only "you shall age" and "you will experience sickness" –perhaps some sort of death. And this is all so Buddhist to you, when you just wanted to be Christian, (I agree, but this story is about you and not about me).