this flower bloomed
in the shittiest of pastures
but this flower bloomed
yeah, this flower bloomed.
this flower bloomed
by the family tree
obscuring the Sun
leaving near none
for that flower,
that flower, me—
but this flower bloomed.
yeah, this flower bloomed.
this flower bloomed,
home to a caterpillar,
its hammock cocoon—
and this flower bloomed,
yeah,
that butterfly flew.
nonchalance:
a prison.
nonchalance:
the schism,
between passion
& living.
chalance,
an affirmation:
you have a heart,
it’s beating.
so so close
but worlds away
like Adam’s outstretched finger,
i know not the warmth of your touch.
that tragic scene
longing for fusion:
to be created
is to be separate.
who am i to blame?
how can i be both
wounded youth
and wise adult?
it makes you uncomfortable
is it your fault, is it not
i do not know.
I’m reminded of that old fear:
who would i be
if i were born
in Nazi Germany?
i lower my pointed finger.
raised in the new world,
you in the old.
shock.
denial.
anger.
acceptance.
i found that forgiving you…
it was like accepting a loss,
the grief final.
these roots go so deep
but that bramble cuffs you
to that rock-like dirt.
I’m done breaking my back
to pull you free.
I now walk away
and leave you be.
I love you —
But ma,
I need to be me
Once I met you,
I never stopped falling.
Getting to love you?
My one highest calling.
This heart was made to love,
these eyes
for adoration.
Loving you
is discovering purpose:
in all truth,
liberation.
The lovemaking is so good,
it is dangerous.
I’d sell my soul
for your touch—
by your divinity, I’ve been tainted.
I’m down on my knees,
and you spread Heaven’s gates—
I’d brave all of Hell
just to taste it.
My soul…
it is yours.
Have it…
take it.
tell me what would change
i’m already a ghost
it would be the same
i’m already a ghost
i’m sorry for the pain
i need to be a ghost…
empty in my chest
forgotten is the soul
though i did my best
forgotten is the soul
how could i forget
the rot inside my soul
farewell, farewell,
it’s time to be a ghost
this is the real hell
and all of you are ghosts
know that it’s been swell
to each of thee a toast
so if you feel a breeze,
know that its just me
the ghost.
your gentle grace
thawed my heart.
what greater image of hope
of rebellion
than in the ruins of a war torn world:
a single butterfly,
dancing, floating,
angelic amidst the ash.
a butterfly joined me on my walk
floating with grace
her painted canvas wings
a fluttering heartbeat.
they made me pause.
what are you doing, butterfly?
i saw its past, i saw its future,
breaching its cocoon,
then faltering, returning
to the earth’s womb.
i wondered:
what are you doing, butterfly?
why?
you emerge,
you return,
simply to grace our path?
why?
nature, so peculiar,
this thing you do.
the whole of life,
it seems to have no other reason
than to be briefly beautiful
The song of your moan
is an echo in my mind,
What a beautiful chorus,
your cry, so sublime—
Beneath my fingertips,
you became poetry —
no shortage of meaning
in each line of your body.
Buried to the hilt,
in your velvet heat —
and as you came undone,
you thanked me in repeat.
Still in you, I held you,
mere embers in a cuddle—
we melted together,
dissolved in our puddle—
Still can I taste
your need, so sweet,
you, my last meal,
there’s nothing—
no, nothing
I’d rather eat.
That family rug. ornate patterns. passed down for generations. progressively woven by each hand that possessed it. expensive threads. prized.
one speck of dirt tucked under. another. another. a mole hill. then a mountain. “it’s a molehill” they’d say. “that’s a mountain” i’d say back.
secrets passed along with the rug. secrets tucked under. eventually whole identities tucked under. me hid under.
to you — protection. me, under the rug, footsteps trampling all over — bearing the weight of the family’s shame.
a heel on my throat. can’t breathe. can’t speak.
i wanted to add my thread. they don’t use rainbow silks.
Darling,
let us indulge indulgence,
that Epicurean cure.
Let touch be our salve,
my lips be your balm,
and let us yield
to what we feel —
what, my dear,
could be more real?
Let go of thought —
be free, my darling,
think not.
Break that dam,
embrace the rains —
surrender, my love,
surrender, and let your heart
take the reins.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 