THE CLOSET MYSTIC

adorned are you,

you glide with grace,

you are grace,

an angel incarnate–

just by your gaze 

i might be saved.

.

are you the sun?

and am i icarus?

oh, how you shine–

i cannot resist–

how i burn.

.

it’s not just temptation,

there’s not a damn thing

to be negotiated.

your pull is final,

resolute.

you open your thighs–

i fall to my knees.

it’s not beneath me,

to beg and plead.

dignity?

an afterthought.

dignity, long forgot.

your elixir,

your nectar,

your salve, 

and your balm–

my singular focus,

truly, 

all that i want.

how i thirst,

let me drink.

how i hunger…

let me eat.

i look at you through glass

what is it like 

to be beautiful?

i want what you have:

to be wanted.

…

the sun shines for you,

what is it like to be beautiful?

you come first;

me: the afterthought.

you light up every room,

me: swallowed whole.

what is it like to be beautiful?

your beauty shines,

i am chained.

just one touch:

you’d set me free.

How can anyone love and not grow? To open your heart beyond yourself, reaching outward — you become bigger every time you love

“You are as gigantic as the things that you adore”

…

You held me,

And held my sadness — 

The walls of my heart

Thawed in your embrace.

…

This, the sublime — 

How I was meant

To spend my life.

…

Every time I wrote

put feeling into word

my heart won a battle

letting itself

be heard.

…

To love and be loved

What other purpose have I?

…

Yes, yes, yes, my heart? What is it now? 

After so long silencing you, I will answer your call forevermore. 

I had so much to account for:

Voicemails my heart left me throughout my youth.

I played them back and wept

…

How wild were those waters,

before the Sun was veiled.

Ice: 

you forget to feel.

Glaciers of my childhood

Melting in your love.

Here it is:

sea levels rise. 

I built my house on sand—

It’s taken in the tide. 

…

And no matter what I say,

My voice does not carry.

I scream my voice hoarse:

not a soul to hear me.

I miss the dark,

I miss nursing my agony.

I honored what was broken;

Now I’m cold, uncaring.

Do I remember how to cry?

Can your love break the dam? 

Light shines through the cracks;

There’s your hand,

here I am. 

how long have i held

this sorrow in my chest

an aching to live

the way God intended

to gaze at the moon

inspired, connected

below like above

the celestial befriended

oh, until then

you’re my slice of heaven.

i gaze at the moon

her buttery reflection

and into my hands

her light has melted 

i drink from the fount

oh, what’s that —

my heart has mended.

my mother, my mirror,

your waxing complexion–

here do i sit,

and come to know completion.

but the sorrow i bear

she demand i feel it.

what other way

can anyone heal it?

i had no idea i was starving

till i drank in your light 

my mother, my healer,

waxing gibbous,

starry night.

…

i looked at the moon and i felt guilt.

i told her i’m sorry for not coming out and connecting with her

but i forgot her nature,

that of a mirror.

soon did my gaze turn 

inward.

i’m sorry for not connecting with you.

i held myself and came home.

“Interestingly, similar to how many Christians are the least like Christ, I also feel that those who speak most on the principles this country was built on are least like and aligned with those ideals. Those who claim to be most defending the ‘American way’ are actually those causing it to be under siege.”

Usually keep my hands clean of politics, but I found a journal entry from November 1st, 2022, that I think is especially relevant right now. Though if I wrote this now, I’d change the phrasing in some places/refine a couple ideas, I think the spirit of the piece still holds true.

November 1st, 2022

True progress, to me, is a form of holy destruction. And those who are so entrenched in the hateful ways of life that are being “destroyed” — or transformed — feel as if they are being destroyed. So they react with violence, testament to the hate in their veins.

This is and always has been the pattern as the old must give way to the new; it’s grip is not let go lightly, and often times, violence is their defensive reaction to the perceived threat of their way of life being (justly) eliminated.

As an ideological revolution against the roots of hate that plague this country continues, so too does its backlash. I believe we can overcome, and do not bow to the pessimism spreading online on how this country will succumb to fascism.

To me, the true patriots are the progressives. That, to me, is what this country was built on: progress. Those defending the rights of minorities & the oppressed, and the liberals, are those defending the natural rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness outlined in the Constitution. And I believe those ideals can still prevail against the virus of hate spreading across this country. I’ll repeat my initial point: true patriotism is liberalism and progressivism.

We often times equate any sort of honoring of the “founding fathers” as being equivalent to being a hateful, racist fuck. But those championing rights, liberty, and equality are championing the actual foundation this country was built on, regardless of what you may say about the negative traits of the founding fathers, as many as there undoubtedly were. Despite their human error, the principles are and were universal; and, what I see, is that modern day liberals and progressives are those who embody that spirit.

Interestingly, similar to how Christians are the least like Christ, I also feel that those who speak most on the principles this country was built on are least like and aligned with those ideals. Those who claim to be most defending the “American way” are actually those causing it to be under siege.

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness still has meaning. Interesting that perhaps the most notable of these principles on which this country was built, liberty, has the same root word as liberal? Are the liberals and progressives the ones who are actually honoring this country’s traditions?

We need to believe, regardless of how harrowing this has all been. We can’t lay on our bellies and whimper as this virus of hate and blind destruction takes over. We can do this.

This country’s had a war between its love and its hate since it’s birth, perhaps before. We cannot be fools and think the hate will win. We must hold fast and know that the ideals this country was built on will additionally hold fast; and also know that those championing the ideals this country was built on are not who they appear.

suffering is the price we pay for wisdom,

i’ve grown to suspect there is no other way.

the people i’ve grown to respect the most in life appear to be those who chose to suffer beautifully. the people i’ve grown to respect the least in life appear to be those who chose to escape their suffering. these are usually the people who make others suffer in their stead.

the people i’ve grown to respect the most in life appear to be those who partake in the work dutifully. the people i’ve grown to respect the most in life appear to be those who are in hell but keep going. i’ve seen people who are in hell but would instead seek to drag others down with them — not merely to call for a life preserver, but to drown another in an attempt to make them their own life preserver. i think i’ve done the same. i think we all have.

i choose to swim

there is something that happens when we suffer correctly. i think the psyche becomes like a fertile soil. we can tend to the earth well.

there is something that happens when we suffer incorrectly. we are given a plot of land but choose to fuck off into the meadow, and instead let weeds grow where there could have been plenty, where there could have been plenty for self and for other, a plentiful harvest to bring forth for all of humanity.

mourn your losses, grieve in full,

lest the past remain, a weight to hold.

Why

Does poetry

Do this thing?

Each

Line

A divide

That commands you

Makes you

Stop.

Process. 

Chew. 

Taste, savor.

Slow down.

To haaaaaaang

On that precipice

Every new line a cliff

To hang onto for dear life. 

Before dropping to the next. 

Can I make my life a poem? 

Can I be present to each word

Each syllable

Each moment

Every minute

And squeeze it 

Milk it

Bleed it dry? 

I think I just learned something about poetry. It isn’t the poem, it isn’t the words, it is the reader. The reader who chooses to perceive beauty in the poem, in each word, in each line, every stanza. It is the reader who can see the ink on the page as void, empty, lifeless — or, it is the reader who can see infinity, not merely a void, but galaxies sprawled throughout the black — 

I think I just learned something about life. It isn’t the day, it isn’t the people, it is the observer. The observer who chooses to perceive beauty in the mundane, in the chaos, in each interaction, in every blessing-not-blessing. It is the observer who can see it all as empty, without any meaningful order, lifeless, loveless — or, it is the observer who can see the infinite depths, not merely a void but brilliant, luminous galaxies sprawled throughout the black.

what do you see in your daily Rorschach test? 

i will look back and call this era of my life the great expansion —

the great expansion of my mind, once starved and eating of itself, now nourished beyond belief. you cannot spell university without universe, it is like the whole universe has opened up to me. a period of discovery, of self and science alike. 

the great expansion of my heart. my heart: one star amongst the many, constellations lit like wildfire — oh, the connections, oh, the loving connections forged this past year. my lifeblood.

and the great expansion physically, outward, a foray into the world, moving out of home, the second birth that happens in early adulthood. home, the womb — i have taken my second first breath.