CPoetry

the whole is this book. we---are this book. i fold it open down the middle binding. i am six chapters in. under the rim of lamp light i read the black ink of the last sentence i wrote: "Lovers always think but love has never thought at all; what love is it does, and doing involves maximum instinct and minimal philosophy." the pages You claimed are blank; my fingers are crying. they beg me to stop. Let love write itself. ::: "my husband and i have this thing we do. he's thirty three and i'm thirty. we've had hard days or weeks and we fight every now and then. but i think we are happy even when we get stressed and upset because we do---these little things. [laughs] he doesn't want me to say it but since you asked i will. so we have this thing where we do snow angels. not just in the snow [laughs] but any time of the year. sometimes we do them on our living room floor---i guess those ar

can You define what cannot be defined? a kiss---touch--- reciprocal--- hearts intertwined. what we just broke a moment prior was a plateau on love. a ceiling---concealed--- a wingless dove. should we? do we dare even to try? anew---is this--- a love that is ours--- so unique and divine. ::: see it? over there. they call it Compassion Rock. "why?" because, i guess a long time ago a monk named it that. supposedly it "talked" to him. "ha! that's ridiculous. people really believe that?" i don't know. i guess so. ...you wanna go over there? "dude. its a rock." yeah. i know! but come on, let's just check it out. "oh my god, ok." ~ "wow! so exciting. its a rock. now let's go" it's pretty big isn't it. was is that? ...moss? "probably, i don't know and i don't care." jeez man we'll go...at least we can

the young tribesman had three means to kill his enemy laid out in front of him: a rock tied to a stick to bludgeon the victim to death. a clay flask with toxic herbs to poison the victim to death. and a bow with a single arrow to shoot his victim to death. the tribes had been waging wars for years. the tribesman looked at the weapons and at his enemy---whom killed his family and his crops. but the tribesman was tired. he had grown weary of death. he gave his enemy another look and, instead, grabbed a bag of acorns--- pulling from it a single seed. Bring him here. My enemy must be near. said the tribesman. pushed to his knees and his hands bound, the enemy kept his eyes down. Today. We are done. I mark this spot for this seed. And you, must use your life, now, to grow a tree. the enemy looked up with relief. I make this your duty. To grow this tree. If it dies, you will not die, but love will never grow its leaves. We will always fight. We will kill, cry, an