sense (the unseen)

you were touched by beauty
like a saluki
it is evident

sky slit and it seemed unruly
but it was truly
not unprovident

I cannot see you
but I can feel you
from a distance

when I am distracted
and this is protracted
your return, in an instant:

my inner saboteur wants me lonely
wants me homely
fuck him

we are connected
we are electric
we are poetic

in our worlds
respective:
within, and without

nb I ushered all my selves (see katherine mansfield) to write this

Ego is a prism, you need to step outside of it if you wish to experience the sacred

Outer
and inner worlds
meet at the courtesy of your lips
You inhale
and exhale
the synchronicity

So which is which
when the bare pomegranate tree
has bloomed leaves
it seems
overnight
and the swallows have returned?

Is it
early April
in both worlds? When

in the other
the drama of it
is much more
phantasmagoric
set against the
chiaroscuro

 of an epic production?

In outer world
you reach out your hand to the tree
to pick the pomegranate
and in the inner world
you walk away from the demon
you have just spent years
maybe even centuries
to destroy
a victory spread over
a multitude
of lives:

Beings of time
luminous and sacred
It takes time for the light to gather
In blue rooms you lather
your body
and subsequently
in white rooms
where you start
and complete
your compositions
bestowed to you
by the arrow holy
and from a great distance:

We need, we agree, a new word
for patience
Here it is: life

peach poetree

as when you
choose a peach
from a fruit bowl
and you lift it
to your teeth
but it slips
your hand
and goes
rolling
across
the floor:

poems tend to
tumble from me
as though I am not
a poet
but a peach tree:
I consult the scriptures

I consult the scriptures
I put up walls
Because I wish to keep
the blossoms safe

with each blessing
given
the erection
of an obstacle
never one
without
the other:

this is fate

watch my wind-whipped
branches

lash
against the panes
of glass
until they
shatter

and dozens
of peaches
maybe in the
hundreds
tumble
From my twigs

you may collect
each one
or let them
blister
in the sun

there will always be some
one –

there will always be some
One

What to do when there is a pitchfork in the road

There are sacred spaces
Some holier than others
We discover them together

On a high-rise balcony
Opposite the setting sun
We experience our halos

In every given moment
Two options
Between (what Nietzsche called) good and evil

Evil is more instant
Evil is more seductive
As much as it is fatal

You should not listen to anyone except you
As it is, it is your life
But surely: the wise choice

This is ecstasy
This is freedom
This is a response, to the voice

Your body is a cage / your body is a launch pad: both

Into the dream
the
living dream
the
lucid dream
the
most common dream
in which

you are
falling

you pass
through

traversing state
through state
obliterating boundaries. Your mother
would be proud of you

the way you cannot be
kept in a box
much like how you
are trapped in your own body

She might say, There is
an essence of spirit about
my child, unable to be
held down, in a world
where

it is so important
to the world
for people to be held
down, oppressed, and silenced

She would
point at you effortlessly balancing
tightropes between
liminal

and boundless spaces
illuminated from beneath and above
and she would say,
My child?

Heroic