“What I am giving to the world
and not what the world is taking from me,”
ah, that this thought might in me
become rule and law,
a star radiating
from the shadowy deeps of my being,
consuming all in one fiery cataclysm
of a giving that scatters,
for only the richest give
without thought to what the world may take,
only the richest give
and are all the richer for it.
Here, love’s inverse economy,
that as one gives one grows
so long as one’s giving
outflows from one’s truest depth,
so long as one’s giving
comes from a vulnerable place,
from a heart that’s open to the world
and affirming itself through that opening,
affirming existence entire
even to the point of agony and tears,
even to the point of heartbreak and loss,
for love desires itself through love
wherever its feet may lead,
and love knows each tear is a seedling
in which womb trembles
a sky filled with stars.
Writing to you is my triumph over existence, and even if one day everything falls still and mute this poem never will, its fires constantly burning shed all silent veils from over the face of existence, grafting you into the root and core of all that is. Thus, this whole efflorescence of life acts like an osmotic membrane carrying forth your substance and essence, celebrating and crowning your effulgence and light. Even death and nothingness like black flowers blossom on your lips of infinite light. In you, beloved, everything is overcome, overpowered, surrendered with nothing a more than touch of your fingertips, a whiff from your skin and hair. In you, beloved, ah…now let this poem fall still and like a speechless full moon conclude itself in the fullness of your womb.
Poetry — my lips reading your skin like a pen fervently writing, sip after sip of an ardent erotica, inking you indelible, hot breaths and tears tattooed into a poem none can read but you and me. And these poems inked in you — like all living things, like things forged with the force of life — overtime change and grow, even die, but dying they are like seeds in the earth bringing forth gardens and fields bursting with greenery and life. This, the force of life, this, poetry, this, my most holy and sacred, my raw naked heart I plant in you. And in you it will grow, even when I die, through you will impregnate the whole of life. Such is poetry and love as I envision them, infused into one, through our intimacy, our bond. Poetry, love, you — do you not see? you contain all and everything, and through giving you I am only returning but a fraction of what you gave me, my love, not out of a sense of indebtedness, no! but from an infinite gratitude. For, as the sun, through you, for you, I have become a principle of creation, a self-propelled wheel scattering your light into the depth of the universe. I love you, and my life and poetry are my testimony.