A poet earns his bread by loving prose;
Yea, love does feed his pocket and his page;
Affection awakens the need to define -
the need to grasp the fullness of emotion
and the depth of desire,
its powers of transformation
and brain-gripping strength.
Read from the poet:
love swallows ink in its insatiable thirst for expression.
And I am no poet,
for I know love but no words.
Love does not swallow my ink,
it swallows my thoughts.
It swallows language -
English fails.
What markings or order of sound
can encompass this mountain of everlasting
…love.
There is no other word or thought -
all the rest do dishonor this unconditional vastness.
Life is alive,
and death is dead
with love.
Color is not gray,
and meaning has a purpose
with love.
You unworthy of these words?
I am unworthy to say them – to think them -
to think of you.
And I have you coarsing through my cranial channels,
you thumping the iamb of my heart,
you beating the ground drum to the rhythm of my footsteps,
you.
You. You. You. You. You. You. You.
Black holes are love in reverse.
And I am unworthy to think these thoughts of you.
I love you.