Send me to the
back of the earth
and let me know
when we can come
together.
I want to know
when we can sit down
and look at the horizon.
Not talk.
But listen to each other
breathe.
I am going to breathe
you in.
And breathe you out.
Breathing you in
so deeply,
that I become
your breath.
Breathing you out
so lightly,
that you become
the light.
Lighting.
Burning.
Melting a heart.

Sit still until I
curl up the
curves of your mind.
Sit placid until I
reinvent myself
in your placidity.
Sit still and placid
until I dissolve
my spirit in
your stillness
and your placidity.
Until I fuse
my quietude
with your vigor.
Until I drown
in your urgency.
Until I suffocate
on the back
of your neck.
Until I wait
to decapitate
my ambition.
Unseen in the
blisters of my doubt.
Saved for yet another
fusion of two executions.
Two beheadings
of impassioned hearts
too hungry for adoration.
For stark-naked anxiety
and cold sweat.
In silence.
Silently losing breath.

I am not
a weapon of
your conscience.
And I don't
want to be
a cannon of
remorse.
So go and sanctify
the power
within you.
Then venerate the
fatigue within me.
Venerating the second
of every second.
The moment of
every moment.
The omen of
every atonement.

Can you hear
how the luminous
distance hollers
the emotions
sucked out of you?

There is a spark
hanging out
in your abdomen.
I see it pulsate.
I see it grow.
I see it shimmer
across the
weight of my life form.

Coming out of a blunted presence,
I howl for a
subtle distinction.
I growl for an
advanced grace.
I rumble for a
refined caress.
I thought I didn't belong
to a mystified condition.
But I sure don't belong
to a settled position.
And I sure don't know
where you've been hiding your grief.
But I wish
I touched that space in between.
Where you hid
your somber thoughts.
Where you burried
your gloomy belief.
Where I wish
we ran away
from all mundane things.
All at once.
All at last.

I praise you in the midst of a troubled epoch.
While praising conjures upon loving.
And loving settles upon thirst.
I praise you in the midst
of an agitated population.
Where you sit on a stool of devotion.
And I dream on a bed
of sentimental pollution.
I praise you in the midst
of a distressed circle.
When we go round,
spinning in a fitted constipation.
And we pound hard.
But we spin harder
than pounding hard.
As if the spinning beats the hurting.
As if I hurt you
with a visionary thinking.
Not as if you pain me
with a tainted stare.
Not as if you
eradicate my belief.
Not as if you
were all the waterfalls
that made me roar.