Biomythography: Poems

These POEMS are WARRIORS!
 I WANT TO WRITE A LOVE POEM
I wanted to write a love poem
but each poem
seems like an obsession or possession;
the love defined
by a blind mind;
 
and a heart is intoxicated
on images embedded into us
and a dual love
is a dangerous journey
into the degeneration of sexuality
into madness;
 
which makes us addictive to genitalia,
makes us crazy
when fed within boundaries.
 
We chisel away the others
until they are the image
that we call out of stone;
but the stone has been crying
and the image; well,
it is cracked, missing an arm,
and has a torso with no head.
 
They say God is love;
but this god feeds on us
needs blood
needs rape
needs violence
needs wars
needs rituals
needs us to be mindless.
 
I want to write a love poem
but this world thinks
love is a battlefield.
 
This poem isn’t a chemical reaction.
This poem is not drug induced.
This poem is not madness.
This poem wants to return to Silence.
 
Silence is where
Love is;
where all things are connected
so I will not write a love poem
to be made into a battlefield.

FINGERS DRIPPING WITH POISON
Every time you weave words together
to make a sentence,
a story,
a play,
a poem
it reveals a prophetic vision;
a song.
 
You wonder will critics pan it;
 
and you hear their finger
dripping poison
as they bang away on the keyboard;
 
yet, you touch pen to paper
and release.
 
Most people are busy
running around outside themselves
 
and don’t hear
when the Unknown Father speaks
without
needing a Critic’s Choice Award.

WHEN OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
There was a knock at the door.
 
I looked at my cell phone:
 
6:30am!
 
Who the fuck was knocking on my door?
 
My bed was empty
so it wasn’t a jealous lover’s partner;
and it was too late in the morning
for a drunk tenant to miscalculate
where they live.
 
I opened the door.
Didn’t think to look through the key hole.
It was too early for psycho stabbers.
 
No one was there;

- had opportunity knocked -
and I spent too much time calculating.

THE MAN IN THE MOUTH
Every man that comes out of my mouth
will have no commonality
with the mundane.
No seeds will be cast on rocks.
There is no station in life
that will enslave my orgasm
into a dictatorial space.
 
The Man in my mouth
is in a redemptive space
but most would quarantine
this pregnant space,
categorize the touch;
 
and homeless gestures
are premature ejaculations
of imagination,
and
fifteen minutes of face time
is allotted to strangers.
 
No one wants to see
what is in front but sidestep
into an intoxicating view.
Hallucinations are
a short-term ecstatic high;
and a choice drug
will not stop the flooding verbiage
of demon/angels
coming out of your mouth;
but being ignorant and blind,
your pronunciations are made flesh.
 
So, choose carefully;
the men that come out of your mouth.

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