the art of kEith ::: 'E' on everything

My love for you is of course platonic. the ever present disclaimer of which I am violently sick of mentioning. All understood nonetheless. Love has no boundaries. the thing I loved. Was once a closed vessel.

And so this act was redemption in it’s highest. An unfathomable necessity.  Guard your heart if you must, or let go. Be recieved by lusts fickle jab or spring to consciousness . My responsibility is reasonable enough. Me the gentle cherub. Burned beyond coal. Here I stand still. The vacillating salvation evermore. MORE. Ever, ever, more.

Woe to the wicked, the Carmel sweetened nothing that fizzles in reckless contempt … A ship .. burning forever seeking the chisled redemption 

i remember this day
we went to some museums
i took pictures of flowers
i was on some pill
she didn’t understand …
i didn’t know to reassure her ….

can i trust you , no.

dear mom,

i

i decided to express
myself
myself
mysef

holy moses
what has become of this?

jesus, tell them … eac h of us .. ost
in these small portions
of love

keeep yourself alive

nobody

i saw Archie bunker on main street
and a faux faux faux band
and a hypocrite with a mohawk
and a sailor with a grin
i saw jesus there as well
bored and broken, oh yeah
i saw harry potter cutting his finger tips
and way too many phony highs

i’m taking names and numbers, says god.
like in the deli line
ham
salad
roast beef
who has the time?

goodbye captains
goodbye saints
good bye relics
good bye aints

when i had a nurse
i partied to my hearts content
she came home
anyways
i never really cheated
maybe once or twice.

when i had a nurse

what can i do
to unbuckle your heart?
to hear your joy!

how can i temper my pace?
love so critical
so brutal

the thorn is not worthy of worship
neither the cloud

who but the holiest can
see the garden?

burn fire
as glory to the source
there’s nothing to defend, here
nothing to stand for

love me
love you
love us
love this

It’s such a beautiful, misty day here in the Appalachia.

I’m not aloud to say it– to speak it. My joy goes uncelebrated.

We drove on the Blue Ridge Highway to leave the keys in her abandoned truck for the tow driver.

She is mountain gritty and works with metals. I love her.

She doesn’t feed me like a woman should, like my ravenous ego would like it. Like my mother did.

I want my hair touched. My head comforted. I want my body stroked and I want to be naked most of the time.

I want legs spread wide and screams of ecstasy. I want endless celebration with food and drink and smoke. I want her to understand every word and take delight, as I do in each last sound.

I want her to know ‘despite this’ the joy I see in the bible; that I am saved; that there is no fear no strife no anger.

But I would never speak these things. Never.

notes on young love scared. now memory and shadow. on this thing that can’t be stopped–

somebody said poetry was dead.

oh chronicled honey suckle. and Cheney whipping fools. this angry dilemma is enough to call the cow¹ home. be gone foolish nymph . . . and lucky child. hello dolly and Franken² DIAL ….

feb. 15. 2008 rev. nov. 13. 2010

¹ cow here refers to a black and white animal.
² FRANKEN in this case refers to Frankenstein. it could loosely as well be in reference to Al Franken.
³ further explanation on poem .124 here