the godless form.

"yet to sing love, love must first shatter us." - h.d. doolittle

perhaps now that i have been cracked, edged towards shattered,
i will experience the totality of this, your 'love.'
how cruel the gods must have been
to have thought love, capable for human consumption.
how cruel this dense universe
to make me belong.
were not flowers meant for rain?
spare me,
the gripping nature,
the death of creation.
i would much rather
be with out.
how easy space must feel,
left alone, without force, form, or pleasure.

Love as Question.

It is safe to say that Love has come in a form that I can recognize, something felt and dense to the senses, something uneasy, cumbersome, something to play with, some form of dreaming. A form of man, chiseled like the sun, radiant, yet virgin-like & holy. Love; the Universal Divine Teacher...reminding me that I never knew how to love; that to love- is extremely humbling and a Universal service, one which takes mastery of the selfless service nature. One that mystifies the idea of identity, and radically challenges the form of belonging. To Love is rather a "light" term for "Total Devotion to G-d," and his many myriad forms, even those mirroring illusions of being. Now I understand what 'they' mean by the saying, "You can't Love someone, until you Love yourself." For if my total other is my self, I will never totally comprehend that Love of being, until I selflessly, accept all aspects of denseness, those unworthy of compassion, and give over completely, my total devotion to the Union, which is healing all fragments of self, all perfect in their misplacement.
Love as prayer, meditation, or blessing...
Love as the Cosmic Symbiosis.
Love as Mystery.

Dream Rant.

i haven't written in so long, so maybe now would be a good time to compose my thoughts...
i miss myself, the music, how i sang,
how i had a vision of myself immersed
in melody,
transcendence,
dense purples,
and space-time,
without any dimensions.
I haven't played an instrument for so long.
I've been feeling as if I left myself,
and entered the parallel mundane dimension of reality.
I use to believe that I could thrive in my imagination alone.
I use to have a sense of self,
in my youth, (or ignorance)
that I really felt I could 'hold on'
to something,
even if it wasn't real.
I find with maturation
the ripeness of fruit
submit to a form
of compost,
as if there is nothing
to live for,
like all wisdom has subsided the fairy tale.
I wanted to re-enter the galaxy,
be the child that doesn't see any balance or form,
I want to re-live the world of dreams,
holding on the the songs,
with intense passion,
that made me believe I didn't have to hold on to being here.

the g-d of form.

it is women that were meant for beauty,
it is women that were meant for poetry.

you take my form,
mold it,
I am some clay-dust,
founded on dense ash,
my body swelters at your beginning.

you play some god,
I become a woman
at your finger tips,
a space to fill
your blackness.

you become the sun,
pouring me with the
experience of beauty,
- it is I who
will worship your radiance.

you create an altar
around my form,
rose petals, sage, sea shells,
fresh fruit-
you ask me to fulfill you,
you beg questions with answer,
I begin to understand what
G-d must feel like.