My Own God, the Sun

I want the Sun

           the life that it grows

           the star living deep in our bones.

I want the Sun

           the world that it shows

           the world’s warmth shining in our homes.

I want the Sun

           the explosion of cosmic flows

           the stars exploding out of our souls.

Naturally

There’s something about this greenery,

this ever-changing scenery,

that caught me sitting serenely,

then thinking about the Sun’s energy,

though feeling apart completely.

Global Glob

Somewhere there is a million people

kissing all at once, 

somewhere there is a million people 

spitting simultaneously, 

this mass exchange of saliva, 

this mass collection on the ground.

      I know this because 

there is an aged couple, 

a foot away from me, 

in tender embrace exchanging a kiss,

as I spit to the ground, 

trying not to corrupt their kiss. 

     I’ve made this number, 

a million times in my head, 

from a fanciful equation, 

from the prediction 

of the eternal exchange 

of water, 

of the source we all come from, 

of the contradicting ways

which our waters are used. 

One makes a million, 

a pool of numberless droplets 

of unthinkable shape and size. 

A kiss can lead to a million seeds 

either captured, or released 

onto the ground. 

                                 Seeds, 

grown from spitting skies, 

mingling beside the 

couple where my spit lies.

Kiss goodbye, leaving spit. 

Black lung death kiss, yet, 

Flowers lips opening to Apollo’s shaft.

Eskimo brothers, all spitting and 

kissing into the same flowerpot.

Drooling, who are we fooling, 

it’s stimulated saliva, 

drooling, who are we fooling,

it’s the marriage of kiss and spit.