poetry

We each bring our own unique beauty to the world, and how blessed we are to have the freedom to find that beauty in each other.

Your oddity is your hottest commodity but you scratch yourself like it's the lottery to reject yourself mentally, spiritually & bodily.

I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don__ be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

The funny thingaboutadvice is,we always tellothersthe thingswecannotreally doourselves.

Some people are hard to forget, but some people are hard to remember.

Poetry is a connection to a change within you.

As we change, our writing changes too. You cannot write the same poem twice. And that's a good thing.

A mask you ask? Optional I find!Masks lend appeal of a mysterious kind.

God,is there no faith left?He has not told. I would not know Him if I saw Him.

Madness is loving the unsolvable puzzle of your soul and replacing the lost pieces with my own.

Mystical experience needs some form of dogma in order not to dissipate into moments of spiritual intensity that are merely personal, and dogma needs regular infusions of unknowingness to keep from calcifying into the predictable, pontificating, and anti-intellectual services so common in mainstream American churches. So what does all this mean practically? It means that congregations must be conscious of the persistent and ineradicable loneliness that makes a person seek communion, with other people and with God, in the first place. It means that conservative churches that are infused with the bouncy brand of American optimism one finds in sales pitches are selling shit. It means that liberal churches that go months without mentioning the name of Jesus, much less the dying Christ, have no more spiritual purpose or significance than a local union hall. It means that we -- those of us who call ourselves Christians -- need a revolution in the way we worship. This could mean many different things -- poetry as liturgy, focused and extended silences, learning from other religious traditions and rituals (this seems crucial), incorporating apophatic language. But one thing it means for sure: we must be conscious of language as language, must call into question every word we use until we refine or remake a language that is fit for our particular religious doubts and despairs -- and of course (and most of all!) our joys.

You should not have to burn your hand every day to feel the mystery of fire.

Whiteness of moonlight builds a house that is not there

AttractionThe whites of his eyespull me like moons.He smiles. I believehis face. Alreadymy body slips down in the chair:I recline on my side,offering peeled grapes.I can taste his tonguein my mouthwhenever he speaks.I suspect he lies.But my body oils itself loose.When he gets up to fix a drinkmy legs like derrickshoist me off the seat.I am thirsty, it seams.Already I see the seductionfar off in the distancelike a large treedwarfed by a risein the road.I put away objectionsas quietly as quilts.Already I explain to myselfhow marriages are broken--accidentally, like arms or legs.

This was what the poets couldn't put in their poetry, she thought dumbly, the rush of desire so fierce and pure it made one shake, all on the force of a word.

False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu! Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

DICK__ DESIREDick's eyes-Soft, cold, and blue-Meet Devonshire's-Dark, sexy, and yearning.Turning away-Dick grabs two packets of sugar-While Devonshire's eyes-Are still upon him-Pondering his every move.Is Dick a playboy,A ladies' man,A mans' man,Or a killer?Does his sex long for,Something hard-Or something soft?Does he need cream in his coffee-The screaming splash of a man,Or the sweet flow of a woman?Finishing up at the bar-Dick turns to leave-Meets Devonshire's gaze again-Hot, thirsty, and longing-But full of trepidation.Following the flow of etiquette-Dick shoots out of the cafe,Past Devonshire,And into a world of dashed hopes,And regrets.But Devonshire-No longer of two worlds-Rises in pursuit-Goes after Dick,And taps him on the shoulder.Dick gives a turn,Raises his shoulders,And smiles with interest-Taking Devonshire's hand,And asking his name.Devonshire answers-Desire.Dick invites Devonshire to dinner,Where he eats everything,Swallowing Dick's life stories,And devouring his misgivings.For dessert,Devonshire takes Dick home,Into his bed,Against his flesh,And gives Dick all of him-His deepest desires,The love in his eyes,And the fire in his soul.

Saturated Arrogance...imprisoned musescried to be freeshe took away their quillsand saiddo not bother me...