a sneaking suspicion

I have a sneaking suspicion:
that when we move the stars watch with envy
 that this moment is timeless, and hence eternal
  and that we are all on a pilgrimage.
I have a sneaking suspicion:
 that there is an ocean inside every one of us
  that there is a potential supernova within our breasts
   and love, and love!
I'm not talking about the excuse of the word
that we package n sprinkle with a bit of affection
to ration out with so many strings attached-
and the fine print! oh the fine print.
No. I'm talking about that complete consummation
which leaves no room for the consideration of self.
And the eventual eruption of that dormant volcano      
that makes you want to stab through your own chest
so the fountain of your torn heart may write in blood
that poem which no pen can write!

confessions p 12

I'm hanging on to the bottom rungs of this ladder
like everything depends on it
as if I want to be alone among the stars
as if their cold light could warm my belly.
Fuck reaching for the stars
I'd rather know the constellations that shine
in the dark sky of my own heart.

the alchemy of tears and dreams

Some days I leave these pages blank
but when I hear the passage of seasons
whispering of setting suns
and I remember that I have
only this moment
then I am so overwhelmed
with what I have to say
that I can speak only in tears.
I live to turn these tears to words
to give them expression.
I am a drop, a trickle
a splash in a stream
singing in praise of the sea.