I Am Going To Transform You Into The Tulip That You Are

Crying in a dream,
riding in the backseat
of an old car,
Pearl Jam’s exquisite B-side
Yellow Ledbetter playing in my head.

The soaring sorrow
of a dislocated heart
rising and falling like birds
kissing the sky.

Star-kissed lover,
tears and years deep,
something so beautiful
has been unleashed
from my soul.

Although I am spilling
salty tears from the past,
it is only the catharsis
of finally knowing
what home feels like,
clouds of darkness
holding in the rain,
until one Sunday a monsoon
of redemptive love flooded
away all the hurt that
huddled in fear around my neck.

One dream of a girl made of magic,
one hope of a boy sent to learn
the language of the stars,
a fleet of anguished ships
diminishing upon the horizon.

My love for you is infinite,
yet expanding exponentially
into the bright blue sky of our love.

I was so powerfully
in the moment
of that dream,
weeping for all the artists
in all the universes,
for those evocations of emotion,
those scarecrows of the human spirit.

And then the lyrics transposed
into a message from my heart to yours:

“I am going to transform you
into the tulip that you are.”

And the power of poetry
drove me back to consciousness,
back into the true surreality
in which the most vivacious woman
in the universe is somehow mine.

And we fly high above the Earth,
and we paint with rings of color born
of the husks of supernovae,
nebulae so beautiful we don’t need
eyes to see them.

And we laugh as denizens
of the cosmos should,
as loving friends bellowing
to an inside joke.

Communicate. Kiss.
Caress. Make love. Make art.
Reflect. Learn.

And repeat.
And repeat.

The Metaphorical Overload Of A Gravitationally Lensed Heart

I.

Skull ovals widen their electromagnetic net,

dragging her into my line of sight like collateral damage.

 

Her smile subtly burrows through me

like a Planck-scale gravitational wave,

evoking quantum goose-bump ripples

that carve epic monuments into my skin.

 

She inhabits my outer shell

like a master puppeteer,

marshaling my limbs to dance

to the beat of the prime singularity.

 

I am a flimsy sheet of sentient parchment

on which the cosmic background radiation is written.

 

II.

Whenever inertia draws her near,

space-time creaks and hisses

like an old house blown by the wind.

 

The same way that the curvature of Earth red-shifts

the lemony midday sun into a rust-tinged evening sunset,

she pinches off my shocked heart like a cluster of dusty grapes.

 

Untethered to the supermassive wounds of lost love,

the amorphous boundaries of the cryptic past

dissolve like a magician’s failed finale.

 

Her spring face and energetic eyes

reconstruct my depleted center

with the unstoppable momentum

and unimaginable complexity

of a swirling galactic supercluster:

 

my halted bloodstream and choking lungs

suddenly refill with thin blue atmosphere

as I bathe in the circularity of lust.

 

III.

Her silently approaching silhouette stirs

this surging shipwreck of consciousness forward,

releasing balloons of steely desire which rise

like a flurry of bioluminescent corpses

from the crushing depths of the sea floor.

 

Her sweeping vista expands before my eyes

like desert mountains upturned by the tectonic drift of time.

 

Curled inside the light-starved cocoon of night

my eyes climb over her glacial body with the frenetic motion

of lizards scrambling up a cliff face to sun upon the rocks.

 

My heart is a flaming tongue,

piercing the night air.

 

IV.

With an alluring gaze,

she sprinkles my inner solar system

with flickering purple discs of unstable antimatter

that orbit near the surface of my flushed face.

 

As she leans in for a kiss,

our opposing particles spectacularly collide:

soon all that will exist in the universe

is the supernova remnant of our Love.

 

My jack-hammered heart glistens

like the gnarled trunk of a mammoth alien tree

whose drooping boughs still remain

despite a thousand years of winter lightning

and a full season of flooding summer rain.

Rising From The Depths Of This Magnificent Tomb, We Face The Sky

I.
Kiss me here
under the azure skies
where time kills.

Kiss me here
where the mind’s eye
simmers in fear.

Taste me tonight
where once again
the trickster’s balm
of artistic expression
has failed to soothe
my aching eyes.

Even in the tomb
of King Mausolus
there is no rest,
for words do not heal,
they merely reflect the torrid currents
that flow through the twin rivers of sight.

Words,
even those etched in stone,
merely reflect.

So take me into blackest night:
above the embers impale me
with the funeral-scarred skies
as I tenderly genuflect.

II.
Starry sky,
you compass
of my forlorn heart,
your ubiquitous light-streams
only heighten the rush
of the precisely-calibrated oxygen
that courses through my brain.

Words,
even those etched in stone,
merely reflect.

So take me into blackest night:
above the embers impale me
with the funeral-scarred skies
as I tenderly genuflect.

III.
Desire,
your sharpened mountain peaks
can never overflow enough
to float this wretched boat,
so I disown you,
again and again,
again and again.

Oh,
to survive this time-quake,
to scale this tremendously blackened monument
is a testament to the wiry limbs of life:
from my vantage point here in the teeming silence,
how the galaxies swirl, how the galaxies swirl!

I feel the screams of contemplation
as their wounds of dislocation
erupt from a billion distant points,
cascading in front of my eyes like falling stars:
the light years streak onto the canvas
in carefully-measured caresses,
carefully-measured caresses.

IV.
Tethered to this fragile satellite,
the mind feels like a universe-sized wormhole,
a supernova bloom that engulfs
the event horizon of a black hole.

Oh, the bitter give-and-take,
the bitter give-and-take:
even the handful of light years
that separates us from the nearest star is
a meager teardrop thoughtfully descending
into the cloaked cauldron of time.

V.
So taste me tonight
where once again
the trickster’s balm
has failed to soothe
my aching eyes.

Kiss me here
in the twilight
where the mind’s eye
simmers in fear.

Kiss me here
under the azure skies
where time kills.

Destination Unknown

1.

The canopy squirrels leap and chatter,

the sipping doves disappear in a flurry

of gray and white.

 

Earth slides through space-time

like a whisper through a sieve.

 

We dwell underground,

burrowing through violent tunnels

of self-doubt.

 

Earth slides through space-time

like a whisper through a sieve.

 

2.

When salvation suddenly serenades us

with the boisterous song of serendipity,

we climb out of the dirt,

we climb out of the dirt.

 

In the sky our dreams scatter like leaves

in the fluxing sun-stream.

 

As the glittery metropolis of discovery expands outward,

the sound of lips softly kissing fills the stadium of our hearts

with the unrestrained roar of rejuvenation.

 

In the sky our dreams scatter like leaves

in the fluxing sun-stream.

 

3.

Make it beautiful,

make it brutal,

but do make it.

 

Scrape the stars under your fingernails;

light the sky with your smile.

 

Make it beautiful,

make it brutal,

but do make it.

 

(The canopy squirrels leap and chatter,

the sipping doves disappear in a flurry

of gray and white.)

Edgar Froese, Founder Of Tangerine Dream, Dead At 70

She worshiped the derelict spaceship of my artistic halo,
yet those lines of repetitious innocence were simply me,
pacing the pavement, releasing fever dreams in measured doses
like angry air from a balloon; in her mind she sketched my hungry fingers
with a crayon made of heartlust, and now, all that I can remember is
the sumptuous spaciousness of her feathery kiss.

When I close my eyes & sing,
the banality of life disappears;
I become a nebula whose masks
of matter shed in billowing layers
like a vivacious snake whose sudden strike
unleashes a swirling galaxy of empathy
from deep within my battered heart.