by on

i. the limit: some infinities are bigger than the other…


Determining the Slope:

I rack my brain until I focus in on one instant of time that distilled the peak of happiness between us. I subtract me from the equation and am left with only *u. Naturally, I take out a piece of paper and compose the instant into a poem.


Conceptualizing How Small Infinity Can Be:
I fold the paper continually, constantly, evenly, until I cannot fold it any further. I realize, conceptually, that I could continue to fold it, but it’s too dense for my lady fingers, still, it’s lost no value, it’s lost no mass. I finally grasp infinity in the palm of my hand. I finally have conceptualized how small something so endless is truly. I no longer feel burdened by the pain of losing you, and dwell in the blessing of the memory in perfect peace.

Expressing the Derivative Function:

Guilty. I went off on another tangent, didn’t I? Trying to create a harmonic frequency between us.  Attempting to unionize algebra and geometry; discovering calculus. ( – us ) 

It clicks. It took only the crack of a heartbreak. Although, from within the confines of our 4-D spacetime it sounded more like a big bang. It wasn’t quite so dramatic from the vantage of a higher plane. My guts, thoughts, and inner-workings spilled outward and in every direction — hot with grief but cooling quick— the seemingly un-seen ingredients congealing into spherical structures and gaseous masses. I step back from this new universe, wipe the salt from my bleary eyes, see clearly and declare, “It is good.”

Glad to finally understand what I was made of. Even if I had to be dis-integrated, first.

Isolating the Integral:
I had a thirst for knowledge; crafted water. A little bit of hydrogen, some oxygen, atoms, bosons, and quarks in all their flavors squeezed together into a swirling tonic fluere. I take a sip and remember being human. How strange. How lovely. I fashion a lime, —slice— my drink becomes complete.

I recall the slope of your throat and calculate it inch by inch forever. May the limits of a frail female heart never condense *u into something finite in her fever. May *u flow forward in infinite flux, avoiding every event horizon, transcending lightspeed, and all that matters, in every direction you choose to fly in.


ii…

.
.
.

*six pm

by on

∅.                                              *
 

                                                                         .            ✧ 　　  .     

    *                                                       .

                                    .                                                 *        
                     

                                 *

nothing gold can stay; 

                   not even
       Dorian Grey– 

ain’t that odd, though? ⋱

                                                               

               .                      .

                              ∴                                      .                                                 

( it’s almost funny)

   how the beauty and the money.   °      ✧ 　　　. •
            ◦    seem to have initiated an inertial, maybe even
                 gravitational, pull around one another
                 like a chain reaction → a constellation of big.   
                dippers and little dippers           °              .       o        .  
      .          ✧ 　　  .     
s
p
o

o

*n

g
i

n

                 .

            .

              *     i loved *u dearly.    *         .               •

                         •                      . 

       *              tidally love locked forever in a memory  .               •

                      of a perfect autumn evening draping starshine

                 •.   sky high before midnight counting all the skyscrapers

                      or drinking in the day time along the High Line. .          ✧ 　　 

.                              *                           .

                                                We would’ve,

                                                                                       could’ve,

                                                                                                                            should’ve

                                                                                                                                      lived

                                                                                                                         together;

                                                                                                         love

                                                                                          locked

                                                                          s    .

                                                                           l               .

                                                                              o           .

                                                                                   w   *

                                                                                              dancing 

                                                                                                   .                in

                                                                                                        .                          s

                                                                                                              .                              l    

                                                                                                                      .                      o          

                                                                                                            .       w

. c

           s        .     *       i         
 *            ✧ 　　  . r
  e                .      c

  l





                      e       c

      t              d                      a

                   s         u            *and                        p

                                                         we                      s      

                                                               still    all

                                                                                  ↝   might,

                                                                                          we’re             if *u

                                                                                                       when                     want

                                                                                                              (day                         to,
                                                                                                                      some              *u)
                                                                                                                          know,   ◞

                                                                                                                                  (or whenever…)

⇣

.

   .   

◜   .      

 ↘    .       

*♡ 

         ↘

                         *six pm

by on

⊹ 　　　
　 *                                ­                    *                               ⊹
　 *
·　⊹ 
Ȋ̸̛̩̩̞̘̻̫̫͐̀ ̷͎̥̬͔͑̂̄́̈́͝͝h̶̛̪̣͇̩̏͑̂̋̎a̵̟͔̹̟̰̤̐̇͊v̶̡̛̪̯̙̱̞̝̞̝̹̂͆́̊́̄͛e̷̹̤͉͝ ̴̨̧̡̛͚͇̝̰̬͖͛̒̈͂̔͘͝ñ̵̼̻͇̀̑͛̏ͅě̸̘̓́̽̋̑͗͠v̴͇͍̖͈̰͙̬̘̻͚̈ȇ̴̦̄͒͘r̷̮̼̰̩͕̟̮̤͗ ̵̡̙̤̣̙̖̟͚͊̂̆ͅȧ̸̡̡̢̛̳̦͚̕v̸̜̘̦̱͙̹̳̲̱̄̈̒̀͝e̸̡͚̗̣͇̹̾̆̍͋̌n̷̢͔͈̠̘̓g̴͎̦͉̉̓͗̕e̵̢̟̩̣͙͙̐͗̄̂͒ḋ̸̳͉͖͖͇̰̠̥̲̇̍̏͛͘͜͠ ̷̛̺̦̯̩̪͌́̉̌̿̉͐m̵̪̓͠y̴̱͍̆̍̂̂̾͋͘s̷̱͕̰̞̳͕͙̱̼͆̅̃̌͠ę̷͚̤̙͓͈̹̺̲̖͑̂̈́͑̄̅͑͋̎͠l̵̝̞̣͉̃͑̍̎f̸͈̞͇͒́̈͛̈́͌̌̾.̷̨̤͙̲̬̬̩͆̃ ̶̻̣͍̂̆̀͝I̴̧̳̤͑̐ ̷̨̘͑̽͝͝ͅl̶̨̙̤͈̲̗̽̂̀͌͌̐̉͂͘ȩ̶̛̛͓͕̻͔̳̳̭̙̐͊̓͝͝͠a̸͙͖̖̋̔̽̏͠ͅv̴̧̛͕͔̀̄̈́̏͝ẹ̷͍̰̟̫̣̤̏̾̇͐́̃̈́̑ ̴̨͕͆í̴̢̧̙̠̥̩̫̇́̂̀͐̕t̵̛̮̝̄̓̀̓͘͜ ̸͖̠̰̯̏̈̈́͜t̷̢̤̭̺͖͒͗ò̵̢̪͇͂͋̔ ̷̡̛̗̫͍̼̈́̇̾̒͘t̶̢̢̬̗̦̹̠̣͈͌̄̈́̕h̴̽͘ͅę̴̯̍̈́͂̓̆ ̶̢̛̪͌͌̿̿͂͑͊̎w̵͇̲̜͉͎̟̳͒͒̂͌r̸̝̫̲̠̼̠̣̱̈́̈́̾ạ̶͉̠̩͎͈̈́̅͒͆͒̾̂̾̐t̴̼̻̳̣͊h̸͉͇̭̲̣̏͛ ̸̠̮̤͙̻̈́̒̀͂́́̇̉ó̴̮̺̔͑̀͑̉f̸̞̈́͌͊̈́͌̈́ ̸̬̜͙͕̏͂̎́͒͆͠G̵̠̱͚̳͊͆̆ǫ̶̻͈̞̆̐͆̚̚͝d̶͓̏.̶̧̘̣͈̪̞̩̭̱͋͂̓́͜

                                            　 * ·　　　　　　· ˚
　 ✧
⁕                                                    
.

·

　　　　　　             · ˚          .
                                          ⁕                              ­                                 
        .


i propose that fate is not the ¹⁰¹⁰⁰¹ :
opposite of choice; * . •
if fate, choice, ° . .
form a triumvirate of cause
and effect. :
nestled beneath . * •
every pin feather
of chance. . °

·　　　　　　             · ˚          .
                                          ⁕                              ­                                 

in this i avenge myself . •
and sacrifice evey word i wrote .
to the wrath of *♡. ; • .

even in being as odd as I AM. . .
a living (by) breathing . •. . ° . ;
example of peculiarities: contrary things
○:□, all manner of art. (♡-He) . : .
so perfectly; perfect opposites–He asked me:

·　　　　　　             · ˚          .
                    .                      ⁕            .                  . ­                                 

“what have you cut off of your flesh,
lately?” ·　　　　　　 · ˚ .

So i confessed
to dumbing down the equations
so that every man could understand them.
i confessed in flesh my weakness
having wanted to be seen. (el roi)

        · ˚          . ○ . .
             .                             ⁕                               ­       •                .          
. . ° .

and He hardened your ♡–so the
anointing would be crystal. : * .

when the new words come before you
when you open up my vision. •. *

⊹ . . . . .
    🪐   •     . 
   . *  　　　　　　· ˚
            . °.   ✷
     .

it was not coincidence * . ° .
when *♡ called me by name a number. :
it is how fate is not the ¹⁰¹⁰⁰¹
opposite of choice; • . . *
i know now that fate, choice, .• .
form a triumvirate of cause . ○ • . . .
and effect . . , . . * .
nestled beneath. . . •.
every pin feather • . °
of destiny. ; .

⊹

   *  　　　　　　· ˚
              ✷ .
“you must work six days to reap the blessings of the seventh,” He told me…

He told me…

He told me… ∞. . .

♡ six pm

(*inspired by sermon: Anointed for the Altercation by T.D. Jakes, and God♡♡♡)

by on

⨀

for fifty days i fasted,

knowing no-thing,

save the retching of my own flesh,

save the pit of my own stomach.

*

for your arrival safely we sold

our cattle, fashioned a festival

our first kiss –a first sip of wine

on the day break of Pentecost,

at last my fast was over.

*

we fashioned circles of precious metals

and strung them around each other’s

vena amori, declared forever in a vacuum

proclaimed endurance upon the coming

event horizon of time itself.

*

space swells with the ancient ruins

of men and women who shed tears

tracing the constellation trails

from one end of an ocean to another

filling the void of voiceless oceans

with metaphoric rapture and appetite

for adventure.

*

*darling, the smell of desert sand swims

firmly between your pores,

your body warm as the land

cut like mountains

between your biceps

where my head lays

basking in the moments

you are here. 

*

how i adore you so.

*

proclaim eternity

enter matrimony – eyes wide open

place his heart upon a pedestal

let no slanderous word nor malicious canticle

seduce his woefully mortal heart.

*

roots and petals of calendula

poultice to quell the spasms

you take me in my blood 

and i take you in my arms 

when the nightmares hurt 

worse than the back pain.

*

you remind me that even in the winter

the carmine-colored cardinal coos

and whistles, awakens the trees and fills

the cold world with sweet song.

*

i’m unraveled in your high collar,

blue and burned in a freak fire,

raptured by the desert

nothing is forever, we know,

yet everything is possible.

*

there is no going back.

*

on this river of time

except maybe we’ll escape 

the event horizon burn 

as radiation about 

the black hole’s radio halo.

*

dying light is a subjective notion

when you limit every poetic persuasion

to the limits of the human eye.

*

we weave honey, orange citrus, & marmalade

into spacetime tapestry,

 devote each second

as the present is our own reward

the art of being in love,

the pleasure of being alive.

*

the future is a metaphor –

as in calling the ocean endless

naming riptides undertow

we: new and other molecules

blur into water, two bodies

one brackish soul.

*

-six pm | *after easter