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I am black ant, my greed is shade my language is black licorice I am… 
21st-Jul-2011 08:31 pm
I am black ant, my greed is shade
my language is black licorice
I am even with brood, brine and bread

I am peasant king under the sun
I have seen egypt sing, egypt bleed
i have seen cotton fields crack with whip
and blue lightening whip around and grow wings
I guard my families in the night

I am undefeatable
What i sow, is god's holy words, so that
one day and each day they rise
even more stable and sturdy
our promised third.
I am creator, carpenter and
mindful corn
Silent i work under red sun rise

The tides that turn, the mind that hives
my cousin's chariot, that bugling
sweet sonora blue bumbling bee
rises to our mother's throat
and drinks the nectar,
and there she sees
a glimpse of our path
and where to go with our fear

I am black and god's carpenter
and jesus set free
i am raised to arms
Night Herald to indigenous
sky born earthen swim
star milk progeny

I am the last drunken bouts
of indians in the streets in american
cities; drunk yet holding stiffer
than others, where our futures
onward will be.

I am black and, black salt
I am silent and unseen
lonely shade giant, manta ray
i am your lover and
back door bouncer boy

enough of me is enough of thee
i do not estrange myself from
my maize. my corn's eulogy.
i am her lover and a strange
place to be. we two are what
is expected in place of ourselves,
our own perfect match. It's a
sort of Duh! But not many
realize that where theirs are due
is actually what was already theirs
as "too".

We are underground and anise
fennel fronds flirt with our
gentle schematics, our blueprints
- we soar- spiritual ascrobatics

We are the turning, we are the tide
we have been wading, eating shame's side
Its a mix of mixups that makeup
our forms. we are black on red and
red wards for black.

I am. Black ant. I am. honor
under scorching sun. I am
future of our futures undone.
I will welcome you to my table.
given autumns and given time.


I am black ants with my sisters, black ants
red on their head, red on their chests
we are deeply forested.
the birds, they know us.
we are people of the sun
our empire larger than your citadel
we inspire the turning of the wheel
we know our angels and they testify
they reveal that no angel knows
their infinitude spelt before them, like
the angels who are woven of and into
the chlorophyllic wedding of ancient
woods, our temple world forest.

I had found myself called to, beckoned
by the angelic choirs. when I had
reached a space in the darkened woods
the bliss split me and i called,
a bird like call, a mix of "auxilio"
and "I am here". I am somewhat shamed
I had no song ready for them.
The color of my call, violet and white, sharp and high
It went like a falcon or eagle, a phoenix.
just learning, testing her lungs.
as i sit in these kraelion days,
i find it comparable to 99 red balloons
go by. I sent a message, someone's out there.
I am flower prince, rose too.
My self and my journey an equational
invitation unto itself.
a song, yet sung and stirring.
the stars, the stars, they await.
I await her, my mate, and my love of my life.
these days and henceforth
to deliver us of strife.

the moon bunny, she collects some more wax, some threads a button or two. just enuf.
some more, to see what the deep forest would do. dew.

We eat our love like i lick her fingers. like i spread her wings. like my face is in my pie.
like my probiscus gathers honey nectar and moisture.
like i wish on stars and plan for miracles. nice breezy nights. wakeful brisk mornings with a hot day ahead.
we eat our love like we put up with our misfit moments and whimper our edges. our soiled excuses
and our reasons for treasons. unending.

i hold my love like i hulk. way beyond eros, my hulk bear house shadow scares me.
makes me a bouncer. cupid gives us our masks. we know his smile. they're our playtime masks
with glints all around. or at the edges.

eros is how i know cosmosis is the true definition of how chaos realmed connexions into order.
the universe births itself in large ways that take Exits at Aeons.
And in a minitude of macro ways that make seismic waves through space and time.

Cupid hold's life's nest. The rose and the thorn. The puncture is the point.
Your lips and pointed teeth, my neck, arms, thighs.
the bruise. the broken blood vessels are what i admire, night of, morning after.
When you scare the shit out of me and when you hold me in a forever. the sleep that follows.
our coital rose space in bed. Not always moving straight to our red rose embrace - also yellow rose
butter cream sunshine fold in bed. Mary's favorite.

I know love like i know Erin's hills. like the breeze, the expanse, the mists and the music (hidden)
that sings gold to my soul and to my spirit. that i would cry gold and silver inside,
to an enchantment of place and time.

love of the rose is to be in a space of emotional liquidity and know it for the blessing it is.
It is God's and angels and space for love in an eternity of choices.
some of us are lucky for one or two, some perhaps more.

for all i know is that shadow's dearth is claim to hearth and light in love
is our golden above,
families and families and families of doves.
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