Portmanteau

("Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

UnSuffer me, Dear Bandersnatch

(A follow-up by Kimberly Potts to the Portmanteau)

Dear Bandersnatch...

I thought that I would mark the time upon the Wabe.
I will never forget the uffish.

I have forgotten the poor Vietnamese borogove, and now I am relieved. I do not have to wreck my life for a rath... yet the tulgey wretch that was "You-and-Me" I will always remember vividly.

I know that I am meaningless. What does that mean, without it meaning everything? Je faive le blanc…

Remember this confabulation always: Forever. Now what does that mean? "Thank You" is what that means. I will manage without.

Bandersnatch, you have taught me how not to breathe, yet still I survive.
I refuse to understand. Go your way, I’ll go mine. UnSuffer me.

Well anyway… well anyway… well anyway… well anyway… When I am 190 years old… well anyway. Relentless, I will dream up the answers, while you close your gimbles.

Bandersnatch, beautiful stranger. I take you too seriously, really. I am your Jujug. Close your gimbles, please.

My body forsakes the jabberwocky, which tears out the life; robs a mind of sanity and life of chastity. Tragic, yet still I dream up these answers, ever galumphing.

I would not have considered Anyone for the task. Why did life strike me as perfect as a catalogue? I would have given it all to the Bandersnatch... with its frumious mouth, the mouth of a jealous star. What is right with me is wrong with it, vice-versa.

Ironically, and undeservedly, I will remember its burbles vividly and mark the brillig with a chortle… a taste of the truth: Goodbye!

Should I thank it? That seed in time? Yes! As I am still here to pray.

I now find myself un-bitter, alas confused… Relentless, but yet here.

I blame my humanness. I blame its frabjous. How quick am I to define. Mome is my Manxone Libertine, lost in mimsy. Grateful outgrabe, bitter and confused no more! I will manage without, thank you. In this the vorpal will plunge.

Never forget, Bandersnatch, because I am the carry angel, meant to protect your made-up memory. Forever I will drive you to mimsy. Alas, you are the tove that shatters the ground of The Ages. You will forever slithy upstream.

Close your eyes, Bandersnatch. You are proof of one thing (other than the fact that I cannot breathe); that I am selfish, Ruy Lopez. Gyre, my Tao still fights with the mean rath.

I win.

Perhaps we'll meet again upstream and outrun the tulgey that is You-and-Me. Perhaps we'll start the game all over again. Jabberwocky.

k.p.

Wash Me

Wash me, and then drain the marrow.

I will square myself to starve… for the usual things. Healing, but then you know me…
I am naked, touching it. Take it. And now we’re together.
Wash me …

You like me, so take me…
I’m weak, I melt, so take me.

Wash me.

You like it. Lick it. Take it. Touch it…

When we’re together, I lose my voice.
You’re a killer. You murderer, this pain!
I hope you pay for what you meant to say…

I forget too quick what you meant to say, and then I consider death.
And now you are breaking my bones.

I will survive this killing ecstasy that we call You.

Wading in… Wading out… Wading in… Wading out.
Fading in… fading out… and now I am done with your beautiful memory.

We all depend upon someone…so picture me giving a damn about You. And now I’m asking questions, begging forgiveness.

I will return to the inception.
Wash me.

k.p.

A hope... wild as the wind

A hope... that you will come back to me someday.

I don’t know why, for it is impossible, but I do hope.


Did you find me wanting or just simply unoccupied? Your lies have short legs; my misunderstandings, long arms.

Beyond the point of caring, armed with a new religion: Every day I face West and blow you a kiss, wild as the wind that carries it. I pray that it blows through your skin.

I am the prize fighter that still says please. I hit hard but stay away... from the impossible things.

Do you face East to bribe the impossible... or to beg off? I would thank you either way.

Luck or chance? It is irrelevant. A contemplation of the absurd. You've given to me your slow-bloom, as you seduce your way through life by your sheer beauty and unaccountable magnetism.

Is it really possible that you have not bestowed your diamond eyes? Unlikely -- liars need longer memories... fools need shorter ones.

I will liberate me from you... or perhaps me from myself. A hope as wild as the wind.


K.P.

"If you continue in my word, then you are my disciples . . . And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." (John 8:32)

From Kissing the Witch...

There is a peculiar knocking within my skull… from kissing the witch.

Quirky-alone thoughts hit me in little waves. I will pour them out in big buckets of common longing. Can you hear it?

Let me tell you why I love the negro woman with her children: She understands the glory of alone.

Her diametrical solitude is delivered in hammerlocks and haymakers -- Break my bones but not my heart, she says.

An incorruptible ethos: Simply knowing that you are dangerous will suffice.

Blow hot, blow cold, but know this, Curia Romana: You blow.

K.P.

Just Ask...

My life is something different now.
I am awake to all that I have not allowed.

Is any one person worth exposing the truth to... the madness of my heart?

Society shows me time and time again…

No, abso-fucking-lutely not.

But just ask.

Where am I?…
Someplace I never counted on; someplace I did not believe in.

I belong to no one but God -- but I prefer you.

I understand a certain definition now; that it does not mean contentment...

...because my life is something different now.

K.P.

Chelsea Ahead

“You will have to double your efforts!”
Ms. Logic tells me that this will never happen.

Say it real fast… so it doesn’t hurt quite as bad.

Dirty-thirty (nine): A tragic scene.

Save your teeth; the doctor says we are through.
Save your crying for her.

A crowded place, an atom ball.
Aren’t I entitled to play?

Of all the days you chose to ignore...
Dirty-thirty (nine).

I’m just an innocent.
What in the hell are you?

You want here? Sorry, Chelsea ahead.

Challenge me on this.

You want here? Sorry.

Cover it in chocolate, for public consumption, and then Imagine.
We’ll trot out Estelle. And now my ass itches; that’s a problem.

Give me my own reunion tour; something to take to my grave!
Ms. Logic tells me that this will never happen. An aspiration to grace will have to do.

You want here? Sorry, Chelsea ahead.


K.P.
Birthday liturgy

Poetic Justice

Forever it seems I’ve loved you… forever it seems, yet at some distance. What other place?

“CAGE” -- a thieve's argot. Behind this bridle, a seizure by the denizens.
Behind a bar of metal, of soap or of popular opinion?

…until the only thing left to decide is… what to do (but I won’t ruin it for the rest of you.)

Theory-lending by the effete. Tired allegories. Truth or something like it
(and leave it at that). It’s all a matter of shadings.

And so it goes. This part is over. Poetic justice? I only wish.

K.P.
* I understand you, B -- in acknowledgement to "Piers Plowman."

The Power of Crazy

The Power of Crazy…

The beauty of a place like this -- (squid ink protection for we and our little chimps.)

Together we have discovered the miracle of disappointment. Release! Women and children first.

Parked cars, brief pockets of fun, lovers kissing (trying to look ironic) and then confusion sets in.

Alas, a situation that must wait…

Deep are the flavors of our smoke; edibles in abnormally dark colors.
And still we wait! -- lest our delicacy of equilibrium be interrupted.

Nothing good can come from any exercise; barring an aspiration to grace -- the largest the law will allow!

Sing to us your Scary Jesus Songs, with your fiddles, for we have lost our way.

k.p.

Something's Wrong Again

Something’s wrong again

Something’s wrong again. Paradoxical humor.

The Spectrum: A visual pollution you call fashion.
A pandering glance…permission to smother in one’s sleep.

Upon this famously useless victim I am pulling the plug.
A phantom imprint or its large barge?… I simply don’t know.

A delusion to haunt; A borrowed nostalgia to protect.

The Ignis Circle…an octave overheard. (Für Elise) -- You arrogant whore. I will lick your face; You know I want to.

A space to catalogue; a sequence of steps to knock one into silence.
- Ashes to ashes.

A pretty pattern? I simply don’t know…

k.p.

** weaning

Monster or a God

Monster or a God…

My spirit has been petitioned by the prayers of another Zion. Sent to save me from this comfortable, black moon?

From folds of The Unfathomable, I smell an alchemistic perfume... and choose to follow its spice trail. I reach out for The Intended.

A child’s intention or the angel working the gears? A new awareness has exposed the absence.

Its countenance has enslaved me, spiking into my nebulous aura. A destruction of the negatives or an elaborate noose?

(Awaken) ...to find myself walking barefoot upon burning ice. Coax me to you. Your crystalline eyes are a gravity unmeasured, not understood in this place.

I gave to you, will you give to me? Which of us is most selfish? I ask You.

An offering or a sacrifice?

A contemplation to turn the course ? A reason to acquaint with The Order?
I desperately hope so… we desperately hope not.

I offer penitence, though my nostrils flare. A circadian rhythm that my spirit does not abide, yet I dance.

These prayers now echo with time; come to my spirit through orbs. A volley of Gods? A flawed ideal -- a hopeless idea?

Pay heed, as I am expected to fly. Alas, I am a child. And now you understand why I try…and why you cannot touch me, unless I allow it…

(Faith)

I pretend to understand, therefore I pretend to be patient. I smell like fire. You cannot conceive the pleasures behind my torment.

Come child, rescue me.

I am held still (the calling angel) for I am a precious child... but these angels are lost in their own.

I must remember that I was not taught to breathe; breathing sustains the epiphany.

If faith ends with a cry, will this cry be answered by the Seeker? Must I reach out to the Bethlehem that I know?

I desperately hope not...we desperately hope so.

My Dear Grace, have I made myself love you…or am I lying to myself?
My Dear Grace, are you lying to me?

A Monster or a God?

K.P.

(a coda - )
To teach is to grow, to grow is to learn…to learn is to reach, to reach is to touch…to touch is to want, to want is to desire… to desire is to yearn, to yearn is to seek… to seek is to find, to find is to question… to question is to grasp, to grasp is to enlighten… to be enlightened is to again question… to again question is to doubt, to doubt is to choose.

Powder Moon

Powder Moon

Aeroplane me to Powder Moon. My sweetened vagaries tantalize. Upon this Powder Sugar Moon I wish… to soft-soap these vagaries.

I will dance the bolero for Powder Moon, upon its wintry beaches.
( I am elevated.)

To this moon I offer a morning prayer…a Nordic dream…a Saharan covenant…
Irreverent althewhile.

Powder Moon, this fool’s paradise… her sweet-tooth for its sugar-coated mirages.
An erotic, passing fancy. An exquisite phantasm… a woolgathering.

A stargazing of the heavens…and then over this moon to paradise, transported by a silvery ramjet.

A moonstruck reverie of fabricated romance…unprevailing conception in its nocturnal castle. Forsaken. A blunderer’s dreamscape in a seductive nightmare… an inescapable trance.

Whitewashed desires… a candy-coated surrender.

Goodbye Moon.

K.P.

(“Powder Moon is a mysterious, moonlit candyland..” - Baylen Henderson-illustrator)

Unfinished Projects

Unfinished Projects

Take me to a vineyard, under a full September moon, so that I may not forget. The blatant I give up, as you awaken me in the tasting rooms.

A cool cellar. Aromas of fermenting wine are prayers of a fertile production. It leaves me thinking…why not produce more?

Bathe me in the Bagno Vignoni. Together we'll search for wild truffles in the San Giovanni d’Asso. Let us find our souls in Arezzo, baptize ourselves in the Monte Argentario…

For we are rich in unfinished projects, my Love.

Walk me in the path of the pilgrims, amid aromatic bushes of rosemary and jasmine, on the ancient roads to La Fancigena.

As the wind kisses the olive trees at appointed times… let us similarly take up the task of yet another unfinished project.

K.P.
* for my husband

Did You See Them?

Like the Carmenere they grow... a cultivate of disquisition. Scornful of the tempest; a rising illuminati.

Inamorata, you have left a living draught, overlaying the grasses and the sweet plums… all the unfinished projects: An époque killing.

Appointing times for self-reflection, sublime, but my lungs have turned to callow... from kissing foibles, seducing sage advice… a Muslim prayer.

Eidolon eyes tantalize, relics murmur… alas, disagreement is not disloyalty, sweet child…

Genuflection. A stranger or an unresolved soul? Conceived in passion or lust?

A trumpeting to Metatron -- and to The Rest-- a heavenly mishmash of the Wakeful Ones…

Did you see them?

K.P.

Quadernaria Misura

In this lonely paradise I try not to think of two, for such an obsession was not meant for this realm (for it cheats The Father, who is Merciless.)

The mountains in my soul echo with thunder…oh, to live with the thunder and forsake the mountains.

Maker, why do you allow me to yearn? Give me sweet knowledge! I am filled with acid, for I have not the understanding to mature, nor the strength to withstand that which awakens me.

You, Maker, are a cruel barker…with your tests. Dare me to leave you so soon? Entice me, but just a piece more -- I challenge! Will my own denouement make moot your divine infliction of this pain? I will fight this hardening of my heart.

I have become sick of your beguilement, your colored nebula. I’ve become sick of myself. I am disappointed, let down by us.

And now I challenge You, My Angry God. Impart to me understanding; the reason to push beyond these obsessions.

I am yet a child! I can not conceive beyond what you have given to me. Unknowingly, I have tried to become my own God. Self-destruction. Temptation beyond what I can tolerate.

Pick me up and lay me back down in your world; make me to reacquaint with your order, for it is a language I have lost.

You make the ocean and the sky azure. As your child (I’m my own God now) I have chosen to make them crimson… for their blazing effects.

You…The Stranger who arranges my feelings…are you dangerous? You, who choose not to help this loner, can nothing feed you?

As of now, still... I remain a puppet to my own God.

K.P.

Old Man

Amoroso ,

My mind is open wide, as your mythos is all that I require…
You will never know how your mythos was all that I ever required (a torch) but now my mind is on fire.

I am held by the words of a liar, an unwilling disciple. Your ignorant dreams have hurt, made me deranged. You laugh when we are together; you laugh at what I have learned (the hard way) just like you…yet only I understand.

As I wait (for what?) I wonder, do you hear the choir?

On my part there is this misgiving. A misunderstanding? An intuit unanswered?

A yearning so cruel that both of my soles are burned, while solidly on the ground…while yours ran. It hurts.

Me run? To consider this, absurd. I am falling fast. Crashing, now struggling to hear why you struggle to forget. I am confused. Is the Maker playing a game, yet again?

I will soon lose you, while both of my feet remain planted in the ground. I am determined; such is with the carry angel. Release me and I will release you (I beg) for I am not of your world… (yet?)

Premature calls to the universes… remnants unsung. Why? My smile has turned to gypsum… because I flirt with these words. If I ask in some other tongue (your repartee) will you take meaning? Your language bewilders me, suspends my soul.

Your negatives ensure my life, your positives ensure my death: Reverse ecstasy, a cruel archetype. I wait for you no longer. You beckon to me from a river that would drown us both.

I am beautiful. You are a beautiful coward. My spirit abides nonesuch. I have lifted many stones. My lapses have become disasters; your lapses have given me cause to move further away (from the river in which you slowly drown.)

Release me, you withered hand! These tributaries are so strange. I have had enough. You cannot see me, so I must move on. I would beg another lifetime for us, but from whom? I wave to you (sorrow) as I watch the river take you down to the next refrain…

Your arrow is broken. If only we were not of the same tribe, then I could hate you.

I peer out from your eyes, Old Man, and feel the time running (like your river, like you). You shy away, for you have memories to spare, never considering the cost. I wonder why.

If I ever said I loved you, it should have been a lie, but it isn’t. I must prepare to say goodbye before I perpetuate the mistakes.

Alas, I am a lot like you, Father. Long may you run.

K.P.

*For those who cannot confess

Lucky

Lucky

You live in my mind, the way I prefer you.

Lucky you .

For here, you are perfect: Stronger than you were; taller than you are; more beautiful than humanly possible.

Lucky me.

These colorless negatives of you hide your black ace; lend more drama to your lackluster style.

Your insignificant lust song is enchantment to my memory; the call of a beautiful demon.

The Demon is sire to the rubies in my jaded memory of you .

My burning head confuses my heart. Your golden hair needles into my nerves. Skin burns into skin, skin that tried to meld.

My physical body had the antidote; your skin was set to fire.

We fit too closely together, one animal. Your skin now covers my mind. You have given to me your black ace. My mind needs my skin’s antidote.

Your exaltations surprise you? I am amused. You have taught me to erupt, every day, into my own face. Delicious.

I like you in my mind. Thor -- so cruel…generous althewhile’. The libertine.

In my mind, I have become you, a beautiful tiger; on the inside, a black ace. Like you. Born in the wrong era or just the wrong body? Tiger or a King?

(Blessed moments of clarity)
I am awake now to what I did not know. And now I wonder, are you the carry angel? Can I possibly wait another lifetime?

Alta calls and I am a willing charlatan. I perceive my pulse in strange new places. I hear my nerves synapse as they devour. I understand now…

….that mountains were your womb. Born exotic, out of this time…lost? Were we meant now or a different bend in time? Complicate‘.

The small demons have matured: I am jealous of the garments that cover your skin; I am jealous of the oxygen that sustains you; I am jealous of the thunder in your ears; I am jealous of the lightening before your eyes; I am jealous of the words that leave your precious lips; I am jealous of the water that refreshes you; I am jealous of the sweat that leaves your body.

Our children have made me insane. They have grown into a fierce tiger, like their father. I will call them Rory.

And now I hate you in my mind.

K.P.

An Ironic Paradigm

Dancing in safe spaces….is dangerous.

Perhaps I am not real, hallucinatory; perhaps a calling angel. Perhaps you are not real, a pawn in the chess game that I am losing.

Last night we fought. Tonight I am cold. Tomorrow we are alone…barely existing.

I am a beautiful dreamer….mirrors of you endure in the walls of my heart…halls of my soul.

(Dusk…)

Sleeping with beautiful strangers…is dangerous. Falling in love with a mortal, a homogeneous fuck.

Once I wanted to be…the greatest. Falling asleep in Uncertain, waking in Europe…
and now I have left my body, energy gone …because I dance in small spaces.

My prodigious wisdom is illustrious, but not altogether virtuous. I will cease to abide comfortable shit.

I need a fast machine. I want to fly.

That’s “Miss Helen” to you, bitch.

A beautiful anima spawns a fool with no bounds.

I am the Ruy Lopez, goddamn: I am the cruelest of players you will ever meet. Shove my face in shit.

(Schism in the dogma; a glitch in the mold.)
Paraclete! Sew my memory shut, for I am a calf awaiting slaughter. (in situ) How I hate my thieving heart. Cipher, for I know not, Father.

I fly among angels…with my dirty wings.

K.P.

An Apologue to Inamorata...

An Apologue to Inamorata…

Searching the Land, she stands alone. Archetype accompanies the wind. Fear has discolored her longings. Abstract, the map of Eve’s heart.

A tender gathering; the hoarding of scarlet jewels. Mythos. Subnotes in a decorous repartee. A Southern Mother desecrated…Humankind deflowered.

She waits for Autumn rain… the Liqiu.

Jape winnows the slave from master (apprentice from the masterpiece.)

Wipe away the lacquer, for it conceals. Her mien is her bride; she comes away slowly from the duplicate.

Man’s fetish is subterfuge. Release the valor for a taste of a remedy, a quick
antidote: Anima, the certain augur.

Echomen…the ambient sounds are tears into a tide… snow upon a glacier

Transcendence…
A Pisces Circle. From the Yellow River comes a legend. From the dragon gate comes a

guardian (Sophia).

K.P.
* Dedication to Carl Jung

Prayer for an Angel

A Prayer for an Angel

I stand unwillingly in the shadow of the moon; I grieve. Make me an Angel, for I am a thief. Byzantine falterings.

Leaves blow across the face. Exposed. Plunder the burlesque heart -- cause it to break. Release!

Wild as the wind, sinister the spirit can be. Were the walls of my heart to assert, surely a whisper it would be.

Nadir, release the innuendo into the bottomless pit. Alas, abbreviated obscenity. No more.

Barren, stripped. Stains are left upon my robes. Peculiarity comes on slowly… a chimera.

Furore! Inspiration from a shameful conception. (A child to be dazzled, birdlimed by worldliness.)

Suppose? What if? Take the fetal grasp, make it into a fist. In its anechoic cage, declare it divine.
Be still.

As it takes the breath of fresh water… discordant in the sensorium, deprived… claret sounds surge through the garden paths. Rekindled.

Bewitch no more; the conniving of human underpinnings is emancipated. Your fantastic absolutions are anathema.

Wither in your attempts to measure sincerity, for in a golden day, this child smiles. Its love covers your heart. This child will fade into you…ask and it will.

Make me an Angel, sweet brother.

K.P.

King David

King David has learned to sing alone; tears soak his careless heart.

He is now a hostile apprentice. I am enlightened. His weakness fills me. My myrmidon…I am provoked. Feed my eyes, beguile my soul.

As I long to lie with him beneath the stars, I realize how small we are…I am meaningless.

Oh, King David, behind your crystalline eyes…how the time flies. An essence so large, it will kill. Your obelisk eyes…prendre la balle au.

Meteors…and then suddenly I am the mermaid…metamorphosis. Heedless, I spin. Carelessly rim and summit…render him moraine. Predetermined (but now superseded) Yahweh.

Aloof, so cruelly kissed. Timbre of mindless busywork. Does my king ever have doubts?

Cri, like uncut ice; undeserving rote. Did you ever desire me? Amaranthine…for now I am yours, lost in my head. You are unwillingly mine; fate against will.

The Rubicon -
Myrmidon, leave me alone…unknown! I must fly, lest I succumb. Yahweh.

Dressed in green, a golden dream. Heedless, soulless. Idée‘ fixe! Mother of pearl in a spoon, delicious… illicit. Legions desire, while I parch in the sea of Eidolon.

A mighty King, fearing always a liberation of unknowns. You remain unborn. Relic in your eyes… You sing alone.

Missed opportunities, infinitesimal (illusory)…and now closing walls. Have you any doubt?

Do you long to asphyxiate? You are cosseted by a leviathan (in the Sea of Idolatry.)

Draw a castigating breath into the disease which exposes nakedness…and resurface. I look to you to see the truth. Yahweh.

As the fig clings to the vine, cling to The Father. A prayer of intervention, a denouement, for I believe that I will see you again…King David.

K.P.

Child (Mary's prayer)

(Subterfuge)

To strip away the consequences of retribution, the consequences of falling… oh, indefinable. Were I allowed one selfish day per year to contemplate…to nourish? Absurd.

Why are the blessed lonely, untilled? An inquest, biblical in proportion; a maker’s wretched, terrible attempt to beseech reckoning?

Wallowing, unexplainable yearning. An ancient heart -- hardened, misled?
A discovered pathway is an enigma. Kaleidoscopic trials. Peeled back, insinuation of a chess game, it seems.

Never meaning to hurt; never meaning to lie. This bodes surrender. Godspeed.
(Confinement. Duplicity.)

Porcelain are the babies. Innocents, unaware. Players in the lark.

Egos inspire; egos need; egos destroy; egos diminish; egos caress; egos withstand. Alas…egos perpetuate. (The mystery of life -- solved, at last)

In my dreams I am jealous; I’m going out of my mind. Deny the creator. The maker is jealous, merciless, relentless -- out of its mind? Delicious ego.

Runes of the old world sing to my heart… the heart stirs, is kindled. A contradiction, a cruel tease? I am pulling away…waking up…untamed. A celestial test?

Desire (desperation) does bewitch. A God infected with himself… grotesque, unconquerable. I am smiling without composition; this I cannot help …a gift from The Father.

I cannot recreate your face…I can, however, see your child. You yearn to be free. I know you. Take the hand that is inside of you; the poet of your heart.

Behold your reflection now. You see…nothing. Take what is inside of you. See our reflection now? Paraclete.

Come child, rescue me.

Continue forth into the shadows…denied, and your mind will sell you sweet, woebegone dreams. As an old man, your mind screams. Will you take the hand that is inside of you; someone to bestow your diamond eyes?

Relieve yourself. Mimeo. Alas, you have seen fanciful things; will you allow them to die?

Misguided by everything -- until you catch the dragon. What you perceive first is not. I know you. Believe.

You go forth into the shadows, only to add more obscurity to your twilight. Your horizon, black. Descry! Yearn to hold the hand that is inside of you. Grasp!

Come child, rescue me.

You are awake to these diamonds now, knowing. But still…so cold; a hand around your neck. To deny, you would be sniping galaxies from the sky.

An angel whose aura is pink. Untaught. Ask her and she will…tabula rasa.

A stranger’s heart, finally met. Words have slipped from the side of your tongue. Put your hands inside of your head. Your weakness has filled you; it is not too late.

Come child, rescue me.

K.P.

Pisces Circle

Pisces Circle

Intuit has pointed, inflicted a dream. Paraclete?

I have stumbled into paradise and met the dragon. I no longer know who I really am.

Strange, seductive memories sing and glide above my mind slowly, into my newborn awareness. I think of whales.

Apogee in my mind. Eyes have lit a certain night and looked right through me. I am dying the beautiful death.

A poetry man that does not speak. An Aladdin, to which my only request was to pleasure him.

An ocean tempest that circumscribed and dealt essence, merciless; the vague, seductive particulars I cannot absolve. I am drunk.

Fish swim in my dreams now. I am free. I long to travel west, unafraid. Amen, I am alive. An old spirit reminded.

I have refrained, but now I walk in someone else’s trance; a dream in which I wade… more alive than I have ever known.

I dream of the gray-green Pisces circle, swirling underneath skin that intoxicates me; upon the powerful shoulders of Atlas. I ache to have the proud, fighting fish penetrating my own skin. Alas, he and I are of the same tribe.

An old, restless spirit in young bodies. I am reminded. I am young again.

Layers of gray-green everywhere -- in rippling trees, as I walk underneath; in the dark shadows of my past; in my thoughts; behind my eyes.

I am alive.

K.P.

(Found wanting or unoccupied?)