InverseAngel

You say transmission is scary and maybe I wield words recklessly but if I maim myself like Tyr I know that you’d still love me. And if I ever failed you and my judge didn’t arrive I’d search the countryside for one fit to sentence me And I would carry out my penance With love and only love in my chest And you’d know I’d paid my dues And let me back into your heart But this is just a vow, I’d never force this choice upon you. I just want you to know, that I would do what I would do, if I ever failed you.

You could hang me on a word -like a noose.

I want to be completely consumed by you, but I am not afraid. I want to completely consume you, but I am not starved. We can lose one another in each other and still become ourselves. We can find our tantra together and surpass our wildest dreams.

Kings of the valley Keep on balling forever For every king a crown

If your hand was any more like a brand Palmprints would grace my head and hind and fortune tellers; reading the lines Might say our fates were intertwined Brown-red inferno gaze ravages my heart And sin-laden breath hot against your hair And the inferno rages through the air My willpower smoldering in cinders

Might the cold world outside the apartment door be a cold and desolate tundra; or perhaps even the carpet around the bed composed of arctic wilderness. So let us here, sighing and stretching in a yawning mess of flesh and sheets on a hazy weekend morning cling together, mutually leeching each other's heat.

Never was a clock that kept itself. So somewhere a man spent his life tuning and oiling the whirring gears, so that another man could meet another man, to make a transaction; ink tumbling onto paper like tears to be read by a clerk, who: quite incidentally that night will weep into a handkerchief -sewn by his mother on the day he learned to walk. Somehow these words became a man- hoisting a box from a train car, as dictated per pound of product -in this transaction But to the man it is simply heavy, another callous on his feet, in twenty years another ache. He doesn't know he carried the rye that would be his whiskey in several years on th

A red minivan Bullets through the valley road At a quaint hour

All the things we think we know began with some sort of question. But, at best we have hunches a pretty good idea, a decent guess. Unknowing isn't as bad as all of that, though.

I seek only truth, light, happiness. It is elusive, but I wrangle for it daily, musing wanting, wanton, desirous for freedom like a lover. To taste the sweet lips of liberation, and, caressing the lusty lines of subtlety, find peace in the arms of perfect clarity.

Hail Matangi Green queen of leaves. You make the sea bubble up with green, to lock up lies decieved. You give us a way, to make dirt into food, and a way to write our songs. You give us the pure honesty, that rewrites all our wrongs. Hail Matangi, Devi Mata Shak-ti. Some are the movers, the shakers and not, but somehow you can do all three. You are the Mom who's not mad, when we are caught in a lie, but you won't clean up our mess, even if we are to live in a sty. Hail Matangi, goddess of all things leftover. I offer my stale letters and rice, and you make food for my home. You move through my body, as water through all the rivers.  

i.Autumn leaves, dispersed and spread on paths walked off. ii.Wet footsteps, guided along as the light falls. iii.That memory, reflected in the puddles of alleys ways, calling. iv.Setting days, drowned, in the sea of grey eyes.

One hundred thirteen million, Six hundred and seven thousand, Three hundred and sixty - Heartbeats.

Guy in a dark fleece jacket sits in the cinema foodcourt, reading alone, fingering his cell though her number isn’t on it, though he wouldn’t call regardless, knowing he must stay a stranger still, he pauses, and sees her in the privacy of his own mind, odd smile, forest green scarf wrapped thick round her neck: he thinks she looks lovely and stubborn and brave, he daydreams to animate her while the foodcourt bench etches squares into his forearm with its greasy brown tiles, and overhead neon lights flash ‘Fuku Sushi’: pallid spearmint alongside warm salmon.

I Swallow bird feathers raw like empty caricatures of unfilled bodies. Watch the swallows streak across blackwater puddles and gulls dip white wings in oily waves. Swallow the sea-salt and riptide currents and bones. II The distance between the beach and city-linoleum kitchen: five feet. Magazine on counter, cabinet against the knee, neck and head strung from shoulders. Steps from the door; your lilac lips. III You are my cat, my Schrödinger experiment, my nihilistic vice and wry intoxication. You hear me - a patter of words and a look. come closer cat.

Dear Sylvia,      I pray this letter      finds you in time      to forestall the inevitable.      If only for a moment.      That before the first bite      of your last supper      and breath      you can read these words      and know. Know      before your eyelids      flutter closed      the last time      

Winter holiday: GPS put us out on the wrong side of the lake found Sunset Lane hemmed by dirty snow, climbing narrow and steep the steps up to home all frozen with ice so thick and tractionless each climb begat a slip, then fall and whose idea was it to uncoil the garden hose, wrench at the taphead, ignore the internal thread scraping the wintered pipe too brittle burst from unnatural strain the floodwaters came, washed over everything and made more ice and the snow angels spread out across the muddied driveway in the cold clear moonlight saw their wings had froze up dirty.

Cajun Boy I came to be in the murky depths of a forgotten bayou. I learned to walk on cypress knees. Mosquitoes tattooed flags on my flesh staking their claim for one insect empire or another. I was weaned on swamp water gumbo and fried things I can’t name served over rice. Tabasco flowed through my veins, pumped by a zydeco heartbeat. I learned to dance, barefoot, on a long dirt road that stretched between nowhere and nowhere with a girl named Anna, or was it Marie? Maybe it was both. I learned life’s secrets from the blue heron and wise whiskered catfish and a bitch hound in heat in grandpa’s dog run

~A Flute's Melody The tune floats in the air Slowly reaching my ear So delicate, with care This sound I hear A cry from the heart It sings its pain, its love The beauty inside the art Brighter than the whitest dove Speaking a language long forgotten That holds the power to bring tears Remind you of your past so rotten Or of the beauty over these years Born from a breeze An element unseen Played with such ease A lonely heart's morphene

You probably know that a DNA molecule is made up of a sequence of nucleotides that are labeled A, C, G and T.  This makes for snappy movie titles like "GATTACA".  Well, stick with me here... I discovered the other day that if you read a human DNA strand in pairs of letters, instead of single letters, instead of something like G A T T A C A G, you get GA, TT, AC, AG.  There are 16 such pairs (4 x 4) from AA to TT.  If you then map those 16 pairs to hexadecimal (i.e. base 16) numbers 0 to 9, A, B, C, D, E and F, such that AA = 0, AB = 1, AC = 2, etc etc right through to TG = E, TT = F, then you can read the human genome as a sequence of hexidec