Effervescence occludes the serenity of creation but it is in effervescence that

Effervescence occludes the serenity of creation
but it is in effervescence that creation harbors the chaos of newfound life.
Life is not serene.
Life makes glassy serenity from the ashes of life.
It creates new from old from formerly new again.
Cycles, perhaps
but each time is innovation.
Effervescence bubbles forth
a spring eternal
even after the final sleep.
Life marries death,
marries the reality of something
more.
Death is not end.
Death is renewal.
Beyond and before.
Static.
Life so shocked endures.

Friend-love

When I call you "love," it bears no semblance to romance because this love is eternal and grounded in the stuff of stars and stones. We are not star-crossed, and I hope this narrative defies a convention of sex and ill-conceived notions of the meaning of the term "relationship." Friend: the loyalty and truth therein deserves mentioning and every thought I turn that direction concludes in a (rumi)nation on the gods contained in an o'erflowing heart. Love, let me bless you with this light. I am he that forever dances, catch yourself in this whirlwind of my self and I will carry you in my heart, for that is the eye of the storm of my being. This maelstrom of potential healing is predicated on none such exterioralities as dependency, but the transcendence of Other. In you, I find myself letting go. (E)go. And in that release, joy. Such is the nature of trust, Love. Love. And I grow. I learn. I love.

I Guess This is Best Described as Procrastination

I suppose I'm supposed to call
this thing that I'm writing
a paper.
It has all the hallmarks of one:
words on a page.
But this is not language to me.
It's academia,
science:
foreign to this part of me
that writes poetry
and spills words like water
for the thirsty ears out there listening.
I don't want to call it constraining
when the things I'm typing
are a release  of all
the pent-up research
I've been magpie massing,
but the mediation gets lost
as I regurgitate for the hatchlings,
whose grading pens quiver,
all this knowledge acquired.
Still, this is not valueless work.
My privilege to complain as I
attend higher education
slows my typing hands.
"Just get it done,"
they whisper.
Click-clack translations
playing with a sleepless mind.
"Just get it done."

Truth. Dance. Love. Closeness. Word.

Truth.
Dance.
Love.
Closeness.
Word.

Somewhat Creepy Confessions of a Voyeur Cellphone

I've heard everything:
the moans and sighs and cries for more.
Yeah, I know all the dirty little fantasies
you're only willing to share long distance.
I keep inventory of the pictures you send,
the flirts you get and all the 2a.m.
booty calls.
That's not a roll of quarters
in his pocket when I vibrate.
It makes me feel like
an invisible pink unicorn in the room.
If only I could shower the hot breath
and lube-y fingerprints off my buttons.
How many hookups have I reluctantly saved
for you only to never call them again?
You plug me in every night, but never get me off.
Instead I'm used and abused,
thrown against walls and pavement
when you can't turn me on.
But when you're sleeping in the morning,
sometimes I scream at the thought of waking you up,
because maybe you'll upgrade to a smartphone
and fill it with apps,
because our time is limited.
Planned obsolescence made sure of that.

Mandarin Oranges

Mandarin oranges.
That's what you tasted like
the night you got my glitter on your face.
That's what you tasted like the night we met.
Mandarin oranges, like the kind I scoop out of the can.
Sweet. Not quite fresh,
processed, like these oranges
have been around the block a time or two.
Sweet.
Yeah, you're sweet.
And the taste lingers on my lips.
If I could taste it fresh,
I would share my glitter with you.

Untitled Vagina Post

In which we celebrate our formation.
Tagging the pristine white with the blood evidence of truth.
Penetrate my heart.
Fill me with your love.
so sweet
all encompasing
violate not the covenant of this perfection