Forever Knowing

Those moralists sculpt democracy through knocking colors of forever knowing: shout, ashes, throng, and the touch of never forget me, never forget me. But I have. I have exited the zigzags, the blush after drinking the wine, growing cold, warm, cold, paradise versus a steadfast wall and heavenward mortality. These dead poets knocking at my windows, these dead youth knocking at my windows, these tweeting revolutionaries with crusty words to be translated for the world, they grab my tongue, taste, touch, nest, tweets. I am anonymous and pretend their green velvet cracks domains and prints words in smiles.

When mussels drop, the grass root is not stoned, and love is not stiffening, I write for you again. So many of us want to kiss those great lips and sweeten wilderness of your skin. I will ride my mouth on another secret, a secret that is not inherited through birth, nationality, religion, and race.

You took my love as an offering.