My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion
On this body of mine
Which has become
Our shared poetry book.

My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion
On this body.

My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion love you always know just what to say just when we lost our compasses and then we lost our senses using death as entertainment and commodifying everyintng again until we could not sing until we forgot we are just Your papers in the wind and chapbook to write upon, ink blown and dried by Your own breath

congealing ages of Loves songs.

On painting stars on the ceiling again recently on the ceiling of our new art house.

Our friend did the real work, but i had to go back and love on a few, as I’ve been doing this since i was a kid, when i used to stick neon glow stars all over my bunk bed and then later my ceiling. I knew even then there was something about the Sky i would always watch in wonder! But my medium has gotten fancier these days. Hoping to finish the symbols i started way back then!

I painted stars on the ceiling tonight

Just like as a kid sticking neon stars everywhere to emulate what I saw

Or wondered most about and tried to recreate

On my bunk bed ceiling

But now in fine gold and silver

On the arch of a floating monastic observatory chapel.

Same symbol- kid to old man,

Counting stars in mid air as an act of awe and wonder.

Yet, at my age, We will see how the stars dry

This time, and if my back makes it through

this stretching for and coralling of glory, and the endless

recreations and iterations

Of echoing the making of the sky that life implies.

God must’ve been exhausted after that day!

Yet, I’m sure Wisdom’s owl is watching

From The Branch which never breaks.

Along with me and a few kids who

Are still left on earth who believe in stars!

I painted stars on the ceiling tonight
Just like as a kid sticking neon stars everywhere to emulate what I saw
Or wondered most about and recreate
On my bunk bed ceiling
But now in fine gold and silver
On the arch of a floating monastic chapel. Same symbol kid to old man
Counting stars in mid air.
We will see how the stars dry
This time, and if my back makes it through
The recreations and iterations
Of echoing the making of the sky.
I’m sure Wisdom’s owl is watching
From The Branch which never breaks.
Along with me and a few kids who
Are still left on earth who believe

In eternal branches and dying stars
Which still shine.
Who awe and wonder at the living sky.
Sky and sea is all I’ve ever really stared well at, mysteries, as they say
Like a few people’s eyes I really gazed into, when I, like Daniel,
Fixed my gaze to gain understanding.
But with these stars on my ceiling
I feel less like God
And more like a child drawing stars with crayons made of gold.

I am finally building my tree house
From which to paint the stars.
Her face comes clean
The great billboard man
Finally expands and aligns with his stars.

I see a Face now finally
Coming clear. I see the face
Of Love in the stars finally
Descending through death
Into the life of this room.

Another poem i found of mine written on a napkin…from years back. This one was from a true story about getting thrown in jail for worshiping once in Oakland. But, for the record, i wasn’t entirely naked, but did have a clown fro on, as i was working as a clown at the time! My life always makes me laugh! And that they let me keep my little bible, which was all i really owned in the world at that time! Now the print is too tiny for me to read! But it’s still there, tucked in my holster!

Buckle on my tiny bible

Too small print to read

The one they let me keep in Oakland jail

That time I was worshiping naked in the woods with my clown fro on.

Now I keep that book

In A texas holster

Buckled on my leather belt.

Like a cowboy preacher

With a prison ministry.

Gotta tell that kid the good news

We had the same name

My bunk mate and I

After all.

Planting a flower!

The weight of a dream, this seed
Is what I hold in my palm
This day, when planting my garden.
It is not too heavy, could even blow away,
But made of potential images
(Exactly the weight of a photograph!
This potential flower is!)
But, When love enters
My palm’s lines
Deepen with age so I can bare
This tiny glory
And See properly her values, potentials and qualities beforehand
Like a child’s)
The volume of one seed’s potential.
The universe tumbling in my hands Is
Much more weight than before
As I dig her resurrection grave.
I received this message from this seed-
Empathy has the weight of a dream
You once had
Or the dirt in your hands
When planting a flower
In evening
With Love.

Planting a flower!

The weight of a dream
Is what I hold in my palm
This day, when planting my garden.
It is not too heavy
But made of potential images
(Exactly the weight of a photograph!
This potential flower is!)
When love enters
My palm’s lines
Deepening with age so I can bare
And See properly her values and qualities beforehand)
The volume of one seed’s potential.
The universe tumbling in my hands.
Much more weight than before
As I dig her resurrection grave.
I received this message from this seed-
Empathy has the weight of a dream
You once had
Or the dirt in your hands
When planting a flower
In evening
With Love.

In Texas Summer
All the days are run on sentences.
And time both stands still
And never changes.
It is one long hot day
And we are hiding out in shade from The long piercing sun. We are already glazed
Like meting doughnuts
And everyone looking like an orange raisin
By the end
When the wind indicates not autumn
But just less of Summer’s oven here.

//
I’d like it be said or written
He was very good at being loved
And therefore those around him
Felt the ambiance
And radiance of Love’s Long lasting
Encompassing
Presence.
That is, he was a song
We heard our own voices within.
//
Buckle on my tiny bible
Too small print to read
The one they let me keep in Oakland jail
That time I was worshiping naked in the woods with my clown fro on.
Now I keep that book
In A texas holster
Buckled on my leather belt.
Like a cowboy preacher
With a prison ministry.
Gotta tell that kid the good news
We had the same name
My bunk mate and I
After all.
//

I painted stars on the ceiling tonight
Just like as a kid sticking neon stars everywhere to emulate what I saw
Or wondered most about and recreate
On my bunk bed ceiling
But now in fine gold and silver
On the arch of a floating monastic chapel. Same symbol kid to old man
Counting stars in mid air.
We will see how the stars dry
This time, and if my back makes it through
The recreations and iterations
Of echoing the making of the sky.
I’m sure Wisdom’s owl is watching
From The Branch which never breaks.
Along with me and a few kids who
Are still left on earth who believe

In eternal branches and dying stars
Which still shine.
Who awe and wonder at the living sky.
Sky and sea is all I’ve ever really stared well at, mysteries, as they say
Like a few people’s eyes I really gazed into, when I, like Daniel,
Fixed my gaze to gain understanding.
But with these stars on my ceiling
I feel less like God
And more like a child drawing stars with crayons made of gold.

I am finally building my tree house
From which to paint the stars.
Her face comes clean
The great billboard man
Finally expands and aligns with his stars.

I see a Face now finally
Coming clear. I see the face
Of Love in the stars finally
Descending through death
Into the life of this room.