deepundergroundpoetry.com

THE RSVP

I ache for the knife�s edge
moment of creation,
and I dare to dream
of meeting the muse
at any time,
in any place-
come fill me.

I long ago embraced
a wild-eyed naivete
(not lazy; driven)
that I may manifest
my heart�s desire,
sometimes won,
sometimes lost,
always held.

I have floated
thru the sky,
your red balloon,
only to land
on thorns so gently
that I know
there must be
divine intention.

That whistling you hear
is Oran Mor,
the great melody,
the sound of happiness,
as well as air seeping out,
slowly.

I cry from sorrow
and from ecstasy,
I transcend the endless
overwhelm,
to taste the honeyed
victory of surrender.

And yes,
I have shot fire
from my eyes
and lightning
from the nerves
in various tips of me,
pausing to recharge
from fingers, elbows,
balls of thumbs
gliding, sliding, prancing,
pounding
on my flesh.

There is no place
that I have gone
in which I did not find
a soul, an artist, a voice
and a wriggling curiosity,
interior, exterior,
all throughout.

I have the attention
of the goddess;
her powers flow
thru tip of pen.

In the art of smithing words,
I am wealthy beyond measure-
I can untangle paradox,
using ink that comes in colors
that both do
and do not exist.

I have long admired
the sunset,
dirty, clouded,
immaculate
heading into the eternal
end of the day,
a place that I want
to be held,
and beheld,
by you.