From the Folios of Joss
The Universe Blackens

The Universe begins and ends
to blacken all stories left behind
to remind all travelers that
when the sailor meet his mast
the floating sails forget the wind.

Nothing withers but aged smiles
when we learn new walks in details
of pressing lives when recoil
hits back too hard after letting
go ten rounds and more without
love, your ache shows on
inside of your eyes that leak
and empty all the images to dust .

You do not suffer it.

What reflects there can be seen.
The actions of words cannot
be runabout and dawdled until
one moment when one truth
refracts from the mirror
beneath the herbs as we
watch love as the fundus
and the one source drive seeds
to become more than blackened
skies or any regeneration of fields
where we make our words terrible
and loved, and where we create
with a partner some resolution
and above all, caress one other
on the inside of our thighs.

Love is only one part of a body
of light. More, a part of the lines
of translated lights,
unfiltered, not polarized --
threaded into artifacts

On one-branch stars darken;
atoms regenerate as love wills.

We are as the Universe of Joss--
sex created as words
to follow image and phrase
to stretch our pens, --
fingers at one speed of light
cross keys to suture
not flesh but the nuance
of love risked, risen --
never complete, and yes
light diminished to be revised
from dust of the universe
as Hubble shows us
when our universe was flesh
and blood and our child
as Joss was more than parent.

Look at the symbol of 100,000 light years
of stars as infants riding from the tail
of particles, plasma, energy;
we watch the world as we did love
when the nebulae was one billion
years old. Can you imagine love
that lasts so long or the sun
that may never blacken?

The universe will be born in
our eyes someday. Joss has
shown us the trails to time
before music when we
generate not one clock,
but multiples and repeated sighs
with a kick inside to stop time.

Could these icons,
image as hue and value,
be flesh and blood
stars from when the universe
was one billion, eleven billion years
and had accreted mass
inside proto-stars at
horizons never named
by human beings.

Stars never blacken
but turn red and flesh
minds grays to diminish
while we hawk forever
in that sex and love
we thump in our bed
of anywhere.

Joss created this swart-gray
umber light to observe
what she had created in
no space dull wasteland;
mesmerized we shoot
jizz on her hands and lips;
we cover her breasts with
the tumbling semen caught
by every round body and
its slipping ledge where
fingers massage that great
birth and wait for more
to fall down from back
of the heavens where old
stars assemble to die.

Joss imagined creation
in the far corner of the room;
we scarcely know what
she revealed as we
peep through mirrors
and gather fractals
like physical jewels --

We assume speed of light.
Born without air we call
with terrified lips for sky.
heaven bares horizon as
we fall down easy twice.
Remember on that third
day we rose beyons any
dirty mind or limp prick
to found another city
blessed by ragged scream.

Do not exit in the park.
Find the small space where
you side by side twist to
lift and fall to enter walls
that suddenly disappear.
Ride the day time clock
and count the broken struts
where houses and mountains
burned to the ground wait
for Joss to redeem us twice.

The universe begins and ends
to blacken all thats left when
all the stars are burned to ash
that has no matter, time or
even light to fold into its course.