"Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow--as thy thoughts in me."
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

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The apple-blossom dawn scrubbed ribbons against the underbellies of the soft pink-grey cloud cover, tickling the somber resignation of night into the breathtaking splendor of the new unfaulted promises of infant day. It was there we bathed in our simple summer, there we learned the honesties of life. We whispered all our nothings to one another and taught our vast great experiences to ourselves. Nothing touched us while we played and the games seemed to spill into all our earthly realities until they were all we knew and all we could remember ever to have known.

Underneath all the brave glories of the golden sea we leaned against each other's breath and sang of all the youthful certainties of our age. Lips were moved without any thought and with all thought; we felt like one total communitative center of our own universe and for a moment it was like finding every jigsaw puzzle's moment of orgasmic totality. The stars glittered for our crown, the tides followed rhythm of our breathing and the moon waxed and waned with our eyes. Our toes touched the sand of a thousand lifetimes and we danced like heathens in the clearing of our choosing.

Dreams follow us at our heels and dance with our hair in the nighttime. While silver-bathed clouds line the sea-velvet night, we join at one moment in the realization of truth. It is beautiful and sweet and pure, as the innocence of a childhood memory--the hum of an air conditioner, purring against our nightmares to sing us back into the solid waking comfort of the monotony of life--or the touch of a friend's foot against your calf in the middle of a sleepover, reminding you that for this night, if only this night, you are not alone.

You have traveled with me through a thousand hardship storms, and you have traced with your footsteps a million worthy paths across the vast stretches of wilderness that is my soul. The whisper of your pencil against paper, the tiwsts and curves and turns and gracious pinwheels of charcoal which echo back to me your mind soul nature of life... this is why I love your art, because it is a glimpse of the honest you which it seems I can remember only in vague drifting half-dreams of times long past and times again unachievable.

It's all I can give you and nothing near what I owe you but the truth is it's all that I have; just a little more worry... and a little more glory if I'm ever as famous as I want you to be. I don't know if it's my heart or my poetry that I want to offer but either way I hope you'll accept--because it's everything it could be, though nothing it should be, and sorry for the rhyming but sometimes things happen that way.

I thought I'd make it short sweet and brief because when I don't things just tend to get worse. If they follow the path they always do then I'll go back and cut it off here, knowing this was the last place I remembered to stay underneath the line of overwhelming sensationalism, because it's a vice I'm well known to play to and a debt I never can fill.

It won't be short though, because I can't just stop in the middle of thought and put ruin to all that might've been said. I've never felt safe throwing creativity away because you never know when you might need all you've got and so I've always saved everything I've said and refusing to write would be like refusing to preserve--exactly like it in fact, don't know if you understand, but it would be... like seeing a drawing quite perfectly in your mind and yet refusing to give it the due it's owed to take time to make it reality.

I wonder sometimes if everything I'm whispered is just a ghost of a story of a truth, if the realizations I'm given are not my own but the making of a subject of history, a man of the maker of the crowds of literature. I wrote a tale based on this idea once, I thought of a woman and I called her the Cattiva Fede, which is actually a theory of Sartre's but has nothing to do with the work. She was an embodiment of the creativity of mankind and I guess like the Greek myth of Muse. Her blood was the paint of a thousand great artists, her heartbeat the rhythm of every genius' song. She thought naught but the poetry and the knowledge of philosophy and never was there anything she did not know. Her skin was the marble of every beautiful man who plied his marvelous fingers to the rough grace of the beauty of the art of the stone. And her voice, her voice, it was the sweet tune of everything, the marvel of anything, the perfection of all things that her body so fought to entwine.

She was beautiful, my dove, and perfect and flawless as any Muse must be. Her face, her body, her everything was different and perfect in every man's eyes; the pupils of every being saw her for what they most wanted to see and she gave them what they wanted to have, made them feel how they wanted to, let them think what they wanted to, let them breathe how they wanted to, made them flawless as they wanted to be, if only for the moment she stood in their eyes' reflection.

Hurry, wait, now hurry again, onward and onward and faster within the sweet breath of winter and the scurrying crowds as we rush through the lookers of family friends. Wander through lust-wonder over beyond and backwards again, high heels sinking into the soft wet turf above the corpses who will lay forever together around and between the tombstone memories of surrogate twins. Murderers and fathers of memories, we lay underneath the twilight and still the thought of the new-buried haunts our throats and it clogs up the smiles and the knowledge of what's happening here. We can't forget we can't forget we can't we can't we can't move on past the drifting of some silly romance of years past that lived through the moonlight and left all the headlights of each passing car on the highway to some former lover that never will give us what we asked for--and all for one stupid misnomic jewel-glittered sun-scape horizon.

Under the film you could see all the scars where each little syllable marred the skin; even Shakespeare said, she speaks poniards and every word stabs. There are so many phrases we'll never forget so many speeches and lectures and colors of sound. We pray to each other's ears like the priest to his savior and our conviction is so much more heartfelt. Speaking in rhythms turns our rambles to fantastic half-drawn poems of the soul, and our time spent together seems so very imperative when the weight of the world rides on the rollercoasters of our collective voice. Interims of nothing merely punctuate the sharp Roman flavors of our children's conjectures; something useless and dull like the rigid simplicity of a vanilla-flavored lollipop made famous and commercial by a few chocolate smears.

And oh how the swirls dance together, they twist and they twine and they weave themselves clear of a sensory memory or a gentle hallucination, half realized and never fully remembered. It's like drifting through a hot sugar slime in an edgeless bottomless pool of the sinful familiarities of all our pasts: never full, never clear, never hot never cold, never soft never hard, never anything at all but certainly never anything you could ever ignore. It's like a midsummer's perfect five-year-old dream, with a hint of subtlety, a dash of sensuality, and an overload of sensory perceptions only experience can teach.

It's perfection, in one word, like the embodiment of Muse. It's exactly what it should be, and it's everything it could be, and it's different and perfect to everyone who sees. It's artistic beyond art, natural beyond nature, beautiful beyond beaty. Flawlessness beyond perfection. It is touching the smooth soft skin of your finest lover, being so together than you feel her feeling you feeling her feeling you feeling her. Everything it could be and exactly what it should be.

And now I know I've passed the endless wandering of soulful half-thoughts, stepped into the realm beyond called filling up the galaxies with too much to say too little. It's a dream spent knowing you're dreaming, a love spent knowing you're leaving, a leap taken knowing you'll land safe and sound. Like someone told you the end before you had seen the beginning, and you end up wasting your entire experience just wishing they'd get to the chase.

Chase away the demons of forgetfulness and dreamlessness, rid yourself of the devils of rationality. I'm not one in a place to ever offer judgment or advice but I'm exactly one to offer it anyway. You'll never find such a sweet fruitful vine as the one dangling before you now. Take that rope, make that jump, and don't ever ask if there's a soft place to land on the other side. It ruins the fun if you know the ending is happy, and besides, everyone loves the sad stories best.