There is love. There is fear.

There is love. There is fear. Each of its own and loneliness will absolutely ensue. Combine the two and it will lead to disaster. Such as: girls love their hair, their faces, which will launch a thousand ships, they wash their bodies in bubblegum perfumes for: (the boys that fear their father, and maybe other boys, and perhaps the strength of a girl who becomes a woman) eternal offspring.
- - -
A woman traces lines of black around her eyes. This is seduction. There is a sanguine red color to the fullness of her lips. She sprays orange perfume on her hair. Blonde, brown, black; it does not matter. There is want within the mouth reflected in the mirror.

She leaves to meet the man. When the man sees her, he will fear her.
- - -
The boy will fear her; his father has told him to conquer her. She is submissive, father said. But the boy will see her strategic smile. He will see the shadowed, cunning eyes. The hair fixed like a helmet polished to an angelic sheen. Is this the second and last coming? What light brigade?

He fears his father more and takes her. Ad majorem dei gloriam, he whispers.

it is the measure of things

He likes to compare. It is the measure of things. How a woman’s hair compares fragrantly to the lemon tree in an orchard of an Abyssinian city; a place he read about. Or how the color of her eyes compare to the ocean; one he has never visited. Could hers be deep like the cold Artic, pulled by the moon into vast deepness? Perhaps pale like the Pacific, culled by the sun?

No!

He concludes that the physical step a man must take is definitely the measure of things. For example, how many steps to her front door? Is it comparable to traveling an exact distance to witness a miracle— a lost city? An ocean?

How many steps are comparable to an act of contrition— to love?

Remember; for P

When we met it was winter.
I hurried myself,
my overwhelming self into her bewildered life.
Maybe it was too languid a place for me.
But I moved her, unsure
toward that greatness that is me,
but should not be me

In April, on Maiden lane
I damned my self on my porch
my heart upon my shoulder, upon her shoulder
I whispered about us.
Knowing she could not
or would not care.
But I had to move her sure.
--Whispered about greatness that is me.


A third week in May.
Our morals covered up as our bodies uncovered.
I traveled with Love’s own heart into her.
Traveled for her fruition. Tripped into her lungs,
tickled them so she would not cry.
--I made my trip.

In summer she broke with me.
She went to Chicago. Went out of me.
Pound it weak by the week,
As I tried to strongly slice my days.
Still, I thought of the greatness
Moving toward the greatness that should be me.

The Tuesday she came to me.
So beautiful to me.
Too beautiful for me.
We ate lunch;
Chewing our words secretly:
Myself, my anxiously exposed self, “No savior in me!”

Idea; birth and death

There is something about giving birth to Idea,
maybe an Idea of immortality.

Idea is not theoretical or imaginary.
Nothing funny about Idea;
Idea is serious artistic business.

Idea is life: a life that needs to grow,
be fruitful, carry forth after death.

Idea the seed; bring it to Fruition.
I hope to be a grand Idea.

Oh My Love; to be continued . . .

Will you tell me who my lover will be? Will she be the secret one, who kisses me behind that red brick wall, in the alley, beside the dumpster? Conceivably, she would be pretty, in a young coquettish sort of way. Tell me, will she be endowed with light hair, full sanguine lips, with eyes teeming with love for me?

You tell me who my lover will be! And I will love her immensely, like the essence that feeds that flower, there, strongly prevailing between the crack in the sidewalk. I will love her unrestrained, as the breath, here, in my waking lungs. I will love her without remorse if I can, and if not, with apology when I have not.
- - -
Tell me, who will be the lover of such a man:
I am bold and suffice it to say, sauced. I’m like a migrating sea captain without ship or home; eternally kept to land, searching the horizon for his ship, waiting faithfully to be told which one will be his to endeavor.