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There was a head on my chest
It was heavy, pregnant
Fragrant, forever fragrant
It upped and left
Looked for a place to rest
It was a heavy head on my chest
Fragrant, forever fragrant

Turning Thirty-Three

No water will be turned
into wine
Though I have tried
to pleasure
many a woman
with well-chosen words
No bodies will be cured
of their domineering geniuses
Not even my own
hungry for pearls
for swine
No pure bliss shall be bestowed
upon others
for the sake of happiness
Yet curses have been given
and taken earnestly
There was no angelic conception
No theater-worthy birth
No sea will be walked upon
No corpses hailed to life
No glorious resurrection
in sight
Only stories of will
and passion
Yes
Still
wrestling with everyman's world

Answer to a question that was never asked

Imagine a heart inflamed,
believing it beat for another,
gladly catching fire, screeching faith
as the hungry tongues lick it,
roast it into a blinding brightness
that lingers deludingly long after death,
like a starved star imploded
turned into countless specks of dust
bits quiet and cool now, belonging to no one.