How nirvana means different things to people, A nicotine high, some cannabis, A little coffee to take away the cravings, A sugar cookie at the corner shop, A meat pie from a 7/11 store Or under a mistletoe tradition. How the best part of the day, Is looking at my wife listening to Eclectic music,
I feel water splashing on my palms. I drink from a reservoir on a palm With no hesitation or worry. How rainwater thrushes against my dryness Making me, a sponge of sorts. Like chunks of tofu in a soup, A heart capable of love. God leaks from the strangest places Not just from the heavens.
Love is always candid in expression, Like two halves, that become fuller. The Venn diagram that overlaps At the center, where a common Kiss, rests in second bloom. How beautiful, If both of us had the same Number of lovers in our histories, As I look at you, knowing Someone else knew, what I now
The eternal pause of a body, Divine and yet mortal, Keeping up with love, on a pedestal, The glowing object a woman is; Shimmering irises, selenographic face Encroaching lips, that know How only what God can Assemble together, is the bounty Of true love, the type that combusts On planks of wood. The rewards of
Your eternal sand castle, The proposal on one knee, The few seconds of awe, Which seemed like hesitation Or surprise, or both. The babies you see, In her eyes, the baby making That channels your vision, The obituary every orgasm has, The epitaph on her face, The afterglow of pyrotechnics.
The student loans I paid off, The guilt-free trip to Sydney for a post-doc Knowing life could no wrong. How it all tumbled, like domino squares The first to the last. Now I look at all the houses in Melbourne, And wonder what secrets they hide. I remember back in 2006, my days of house
The flop side of a fairytale, Sometimes is empty. There is no back garden of weeds, To some lives. Its like the moon without craters. What you see in the belly and the face Are sometimes truer than the naked visual. In a world that venerates dark sides, What can story book lives do but
Love, who doesn’t know it, And yet who doesn’t get into a knot by it. The polite enquiry is just a bomb, It detonates inside a closed room called the soul. And you fall with parachutes in your heart, Until you’re where you want to be, In orbiting gold rings. Until that point, You’re just
That little boy with an arrow, Sharper than William Tell, Who takes apples of the ogling eye, Making them simple stooges. How arrows find their woundless targets, The sharp aim, the impeccable accuracy, The way, a winged child, makes Adults fall to a monument, That treasures the present, and even