Wandering Thought # 42

The power play in sex is one of the most difficult things I had to come to term with. This being said, to make a fetish of the power play, to make it the focal point of the relationship is to miss out on the spiritually interpenetrating aspects that truly form the throbbing core of why two people are together, and what makes them expand and grow together into that which is held above them. The power play is a form of expression, this character or that being suited to this spectrum or that, this essence or that. On its own it does not supersede or form the essence and budding center of the connectivity.

Wandering Thought # 32

A: The woman who allows the poet to write sets his soul ablaze.

B: Ah yes, that is until he stops appreciating her and treats her like a statistic, a number and the face of someone he once conquered. Not all writers, my friend, are delicate souls.

A: The poet is not a player. If he fools her with his words, there’s no heart to his poetry. But can a muse, who is an ocean, truly be fooled by a writer who is frightened even to wade her shallow waters? Can a muse fall for a poet who shivers before her terrible silence, and flees from her roaring waves?

Love’s Inverse Economy

“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.

Look at him!

The noble person loves in such a way that nothing encroaches upon his love, that his love becomes the very content of life itself, down the blood and marrow, outsurging from the very source from which his life flows. Nothing anymore is outside of it, and everything — everything, past, present, future, memories, scars, losses, every great and small thing, every moment and heartbeat and breath of life — everything is inside of it. It becomes the very shroud enwombing life in its entirety, the very waters bursting through the seams of existence and sustaining it. Like a moth driven to a flame the whole fires of his being he concentrates into this single act of merging with his beloved, this single act that opens him unto eternity and roots him there, a reed flowing with its waters. He grows, yet his love remains, youthful as at the moment of its inception, growing younger even with each day. Look at him; you can see it in his face. The fire has consumed him, and his face is a fountainhead of light. Look at him!

Wandering Thought # 17

The fire is the answer to that which within the matter is dormant and ready to burst into flame. The spark sets ablaze that which has for long fermented in the darkness, readying itself for the moment of effulgence. So it is with love, the fire which consumes the body. The only difference being that whereas fire consumes into ash, love, paradoxically, conserves and augments that in which it burns. For this the paradigm image is the burning bush of Moses. Reason and economy cannot follow us into this realm.


If your spirit cannot taste the wine then your body, drinking it, will only go down and down—the same metaphor applies for sexual energies and, indeed, every manifestation, the life itself of the body.