The creative heart-Mind, 
the soul quivers. 

I quiver in acceptance 
of energetic shifting.  

The strings of desires 
can be seen as light twisting 
into a different rope.  

I know when 
I am unwanted.  

A silent companion, 
I know when I am watching 
a closed circuit television show.  

Cable: I was floating in space 
looking, looking.  

Asteroid belt, dancing, 
a Greek tragedy looking 
for its climax.  

Catharsis is another word 
for orgasm similar to 
crescendo.  

Can I handle the thought 
of touching you?  

Can I invoke the magic 
of the sensual spirit? 
 
Can I look you 
in the eye(s)?  

I know that I am a different kind 
of bold and that is why my footsteps 
feel fairy soft in the aftermath 

of a rage, 
storm surge.  

Breathe deeper and deeper, 
stronger desires for intimacy, 

breathe deeper and deeper, 
careful consideration of word choice.  

I am carefree because I am careful 
and care full and cautious.  

I am gone with the wind 
because in the wild(er)ness 

I can be 

instead of 
overthinking.  

I am the wind because
 I am feeling and being not analyzing. 
 
Philosophy:  an existential crisis, 
a peacock feather of intellectual 
masturbation, a personal standard 
of comparison, a series of serious 
protection mechanisms, a synthe
-sizing of the flaming heart and 
the radiant mind.  

Where does my soul reside?  

Can it truly be in my eyes, 
if it is not being seen there 
shining and wanting?  

Show me where I stand in the 
mirroring of actions, similarity 
of intensity to indicate 
connectivity.  

Who will counsel the therapist 
after a long day, when the week is 
through, when the month is feeling 
rough, when the year is becoming 
all parts of the moon, 

when time becomes 
just another story?  

Do not take this as flattery, but 
what was envisioned has come 
to pass regardless of earlier 
sentimentalities.  

Can I touch you?  
Are you real?  

Can I see you? 
 Would that be healthy?  

Can I hear you?  
Are you listening?  

Can I smell you?  
Is that possessive?
  
Can I taste you?  
Is that disturbing?  

And I sit here in acceptance, 
a striving meditation of owl in trees 
older than my chronology.  

I fly through the silence of space time 
feeling like the manipulation of gravity 
in the aloneness.  

Unwanted, I could have easily swum 
in the waters of words and never been 
missed except in hypothesis.  

Unwanted, your words were my exact life 
and there are poems, but only one side 
of recognition.  

Is this jealousy 
or sadness?  

This is the Grand Unified Theory 
of simultaneous existences.  

I rage(d) because I love(d) 
and for them I change(d).  

Another capitalized conceptualization, 
vocabulary visualization, heavy heartbeats 
having ceremony.  

If I had removed myself from the room 
would I have been masochistic 
or gracious? 
 
It could not wait longer apparently.  

This desire for sunlight on your skin, 
but it is not as if I do not understand.  

Bare witness.  

I could boast, but what would that 
accomplish aside from sounding like 
a hollow drum? 

Pounding.  

I desire for you to be happy.  
I desire for you to be enlightened 
and enlivened with an abundance 
of pleasure, a cornucopia of easy 
honesty, a wellspring of 
goodness.  

This is how 
I pray.  

This focus 
on grateful. 

Let me not rage by saying things 
other than thank you 
and I love you.  

I shall transmogrify 
in order to transform.  

Do not be tender with me, 
it causes aching.  

Do not invoke my name 
as a playful indication.  

Was that an olive branch of invitation 
or a broom to sweep the mantle clean 
of dust and my disintegration.  

To old in this young body, 
organic, authentic, unapologetic.  

I am writing because 
I am (not) dreaming.  

Unwanted, my soil was not direct
enough for sustainment and I knew 
that it was coming.  

Is this a resurgence in an aversion 
to public displays of affection?  

I, as the public, am distressed 
by your intimacy.  

As it is (not) accessible to me 
this is either blasphemy or 
pornography.  

Watching, unwanted, yearning 
and accepting (YEA).  

If they are still here 
that is confirmation, 

when they come back 
that is confirmation, 

the nature of the hug 
was confirmation.  

The falling away of flirtation, 
art.  

I am a bed of rivers 
absorbed into the sky, 

electrified by the crackling 
nature of destiny.  

Non linearity allows for hunger 
in the same way that it shifts, 

pendulum vulnerability, through 
nostalgias and the adoption of 
violets between 
my teeth. 

December 8th, 2014 03:43 

Pronouns: She, They, Family &/+ Names

Mxs. Isa Lee Love Jones René