The following reading integrates several
samples of my writing so to create one,
entirely new hybrid experience, featuring:
ii. Organic Poetry
iv. Wild Beauty
vi. To My Poet
For Sonic Experience, Press Play & Read
i. Every Poet
that I have ever fallen in love with
has offered me one thing –
They induce me to Believe
outside of suffering …
ii. I am from the sun—the inspired spirit,
illuminating language like
the warm sound of Good Morning.
Living and breathing molecular history,
I embrace the Earth
that sits curiously within our natural universe.
I admire the trees, growing infinitely
with every thought that blossoms.
I undress the mind : scattering leaves all behind,
planting seeds on fresh paper.
I am from the heart. Ripe,
wild and alive – Write
all the words that make us think.
iii. You are the Earth; I am its spirit
and together the trees act as lungs
that breathe under starlight and rustle
when we are excited — leaves wisp
in our wind, and we hear maracas sound.
Hips sigh‒—glide methodically‒—
call it organic chemistry, the way lips
trigger nuclear kisses that repel atoms
in every direction‒—Naturally‒—We speak,
and our words radiate as subtle energies that
translate to pure phenomena. Please,
muse me. You are the earth; I am its spirit
and together we experience living.
( I want you to )
iv. Believe that Wild Beauty
is harvested within the heart.
You’ll bloom in the blink of an eye,
sprout when fingers rush along skin,
tracing the blue roots
buried below the wrist.
An attempt to peer inside blue eyes
is like diving without seeing an end.
Green will scream opportunity
and brown eyes may offer you stability
in a shaky promise. But I believe
your eyes are the surprise I’ve been looking for.
Curiosity is harboring in a new set of
hands to hold. You are growing,
You are flourishing something fresh within me
All we need is sunlight.
vi. There’s a rush that swells your chest
you discover lust in slow motion.
My heart is ripe.
I look at you
and I atomize —
My heart puckers
and pomegranate pulp begins to drip
from my ribs.
We explore each morning
self-confessed, your words
Tango about me. It’s passion
tapping the Earth — wonderfully
exotic, curiously human :
You and me.
When you feel it,
( Here it goes )
vii. To My Poet,
I am a cursive body
running laps across your notepad
telling you the story
of how we first met.
I am the best type of tickle —
a spark that ignites your spirit,
warmth as the body bends light.
I will be bittersweet — the first bite
of a fresh peach, the color green,
stars dripping — Apogee.
I’ve heard my words can make you weak.
I speak because your thoughts shriek —
bullet holes decorate the page, your brain
wants more, and we both know
this gets messy, but we both feel it —
something raw is ripening inside your mind.
Together — we are open
to interpretation, acclamation,
coughed up confessions
that have us convinced
certain emotions don’t exist —
language may sway, wobble,
and even pulsate, but language
alone will never explain the way
you create me. I feel
Wild and alive and fuck
I feel good. Write me —
passion like this
has never felt so rewarding.
( because )
When you feel it,