one card, twice

the fire is getting dim. i try to reignite it with the moon
but the fuel's burning somewhere else. twice i get the answer
i already know. why is it that we want what we give up?




next reading's not for an us already gone, magical, fantasia, moon driven, capricious. you'll not be mine again, since i refused the cling. maybe friends.
but not yet. maybe never. but i hope the thing you saw in the beginning
is still somehow possible.




))*


next is air acting as fire.





fire you and air me = tornado
a night with a sword, unfettered
a swift conclusion in fearlessness
so jump in what am i waiting for?
doesn't that centaur remind us of the blonde singer
with the pipes of pain? love rain
you know
over me
?


after all, you lion you bold heart
this is your doing, a cup for the greedy
a font of floweth. oh i see where this will lead.
in two years i'm fifty. half century. the new
forty. whoopie. jump into maturity with eyes wide
shit!
time for a product, time for your tracer
to fire time to get you in the archives of also alive
capture your roar within the fire as it eats you
like a crumbling moon, mown down by the scythe
in my sky. oh yeah the moon. the mood.



and so you call again. moon ruled and passionate
i tell you the fantasies i've been having you tell me
the life you've been leading. sounds like old tymes.
how do you like being me? your mask is rather freeing.
thanks for the loan

meanwhile maturity and patience are my expectations, a long hallway
foward to the goat with the mermaid skirt, dedicated to some
kinda responsibility, like my job at the ministry of odd walks.i
want to see what we can cook up, post apocalyptic. a string
of ducks in a row basted on the bar b que of desire.
a disbelieving glace hardening on skin. i once thought

of love as glass. now it's maybe pyrex. if one has patience
it must be exponentially greater with 2. oh come on
don't smile. i don't want to be five pitchers down on a blackout
careening the wrong way toward a propane tank
when the cops pass by and we have to act all normal
anymore. i want to be small victories
over gravity in the arms of the atlantic and a subversive
friction in the bourgeoisie's guest room. come
let us bow our egos.


the cups runneth. not over much, it's merely the number
of protons neutrons and electrons in a carbon atom.
exclusively or ed.not manna, not man, not excessive.

passion has its uses
playful and innocent
youth revised and remembered
abusing nostalgia , a crow with a golden
bottle tipped upside down. is this what it means
old friend, are we doomed to eat our futures
in recursive regressiveness until the snake
spirals out one black hole and becomes
a star in the next.

well, i think the question begs an answer
but i don't. i think i got it just about figgered out butch.
halelujah sounds like a muslim angel, laughing..