too soon , so long (the last time i saw adam richard)

"she's talking
in her sleep, it's keeping
me awake, and

every word is nonsense, but
i understand, and

O lord!  I'm not ready
for this sort of thing"




was in the summer of O
seven lives in two weeks - syrupy
afternoon naps with mind of
shiva's cast and shima's shadow;
miss this.  i cannot help
it/you/me/us
cast off the ethos, the muthos
of devil's tales, bleeding
a life, so much bleating.  shall i
bear the wound publicly? 
there is no comfort in this,
our lonely generation.  pivot about

the fix, this garden of earthly delight:


"So compatibly real."


it is to bear in mind
the possibility of unlove
- pray for a soft fall, out -
"You are The Gift"

O, Magus
I hate you, O!

I hate you, summer Love


          (
if life is not samsara,
      then i am already dead
if i believe in reincarnation
  i will reach not nirvana
this life, but reach hopes
of finding you sooner
  in the next
          )



"He wants..." and
"I must..." and
"You will..." and
"We deserve to know each other"


srca moya, ići, mek
u tvoj laku noche, tvoj slatko spavaj


the moon - your eyes,
                      full, (too Soon!) -  gone,
the Circles have come again, and

with you I could be opium



"I will be happy
knowing that you are one
who will not settle
for either the unexamined life
or the miserable existence.
You will be your best
in everything - in your art,
in your artful life...


"and I would
know you in any setting.
I would find you.

                (I will
                            look for you)

Your vibrant eyes would give
you away and you would
recognize me
in an instant.  Whatever

the circumstances, we would be
close.  I would

love you in any form."


every form-al encounter, imbued
with natural calm - with the pieces of
goodbye that lace
even the first hello.  trace
our line in the sand, one
last time:

our infinity
of the mind
and your name
on a grain of rice



II. nubile dhan

"You've opened me...made me
raw and vulnerable"

Poet, distill the letters, swallow
our excess and excerpt, spit us
the marrow:

"drum me as your hands
flex heavy with urgent
tension about my wrists."

the constellations
we built from so much energy
nervously exhausted, the clouds of our chemistry, from
so much dark matter

          every touch
of light aloft the winged Horse

feel thick the ripple of my
unconscious wake, my arguments,
these abdominals, this seduction precise -
like so much raised braille. 

unfold entire your lotus, Eden, expose
every demon and lost soul, unwrap
the quiver of desire, the swings and lungs
of bacchanalian release.  we, bathed

in bali moonlight and ottawa obscene
summer syrup; momentous, our slow grind  -

a glacier spilling to sea. 

sweet bacchus, pleasure percent - loose tongue
proof of purchase, perchance
your honest ecstacy will cross the stars -
grease my wheels all the way to california.


...


"And did you know
that my eyes change
colours?  I wonder
if
they drift between blue
and green and back
again when you are
making me
giggle or moan.  I wonder
about so many things.

What would it be like
to dance with you
outside on sweaty reggae nights
at the open-air
hookah lounge?  I crave
the spice of your scent mingled
with the sticky-sweet smoke.  I want
to walk
into mist along the edge
of the Pacific.  Could we meet
in dreamland

(give me your nightmares,
                    I can escape them)

and learn
the secret language of each other's souls
so that we would always be..."


III.


Comic, relieve, relive the thick
spread of our close
hours, our quiet
moments.  these days

my poems are all
of the breath - and Eve holds
every one, each gasping pore
and gulp of Life,
with great care
in a meadow on a black
mountain i've never been
and i want to write
about the loss (O, too Soon!  ) to exorcise
the glut of demons, this reluctant wealth
of cannot-be, but I am lost
still, in so many blissful imaginings




she, undone and I
learned exist, in a palm
like so many gardenias,
the buds we pinched
from Mr. Lee's Garden



IV.

amok, running
on medication and steam
- swallow hard, this
mouth full of words

she walks, Beauty, through the night, like
this vicarious vein, that
varicose expression for
all we might have known

        - let us soak in this silence; we both know

there is (always) so much left unsaid...