i'd be dead long ago
fossilized in memory
of my mother
maybe of another,
like a crisp cubicle
amber snapshot
lost
and a sunken rusted corpse
rotting,
if I'd given
unconditional control
to the alabaster breaking curiosity
streaming my veins.

worm food too soon
but brave sturdy bones
reluctantly deteriorating  
with such luster wished to hold on
like Venusian locks
breaking down unwillingly
into their amino acid state,
informal fertilizer for woodland's mirth.

so i am here
instead
away from the earth
near a foreign border
a flight
line unlinear
where my heart lept off
for regions uncharted,
not just to Rome or
was it Greece
clogging this train of thought,


but i can remember all of this
do not think i won't

i will not deny what i heard my left ventrical plotting
on raiding the pulpit
of life
a ceremonial teaching from leaves
to live with the oxygen
and it's pulp
and the recommendation to drink it together
together
for optimal optical evolution.

my resolution is to daily
gaze into my orange juice
the sun
that lick of sour
sweet release in time
its nothing to an hour
but an infinity in a day
of trials
and try agains
and oh wait
we went the wrong way
and realising but wait
the plum tree is fertile
feeding us plenty fruits,
endless fruit,
okay.

there cannot be only one
staged divine
except when seasons cut short the seasoning
of harvest,


unless you mean us,
then time survives
just to give us another line
to muster somemore condaments
but not compliments
for our dining
to spice up our ripe oozing confection,
our confessions,
our rhythmic happiness.

another play
I am attending today
this stages higher
this stage is indigo
with orchestras,
no heart string harps will be hurt
in the making of our film
when i pluck yours softly
from the black stuccoed darkness
no lead roles
or precious rings of metal
or unholy hymns
of god knows what descendence
will dictate the future
or the past
what lineage?

arent we the same?
so it seems

that all that this is
is truly a metaphor
for the greatest
of all
most spontaneous
of my glances
at death
and the death of my ego
in the west and

here today

the graduation of our children
hearts who may have already left
but found each other
somewhere along the way

and somewhere along the way
we will get them back
in the amount of time it takes me
to trace your spine
I'll trace the universe
to see souls
gaining there wishes
like eyes reincarnating
into others heads
and there we be no pain
just a safe shot
no radical injections
or vaccinations
to save us
from this love

that while glaring at the sun
and whining for a return date
or address
or something with
a conscious
in sleep lip shivering,
the warm grasp of my resting heart rate
will place your arms at ease.

so rest now,
easy baby
my sweet Zues,
and when i wake you
at an ungodly hour
let us fervently light the sky
eternally, yes, eternally
after a goodnight's rest
because someday that rest will,
well,
it will be the only hour
stuck on midnight
our only thing to live on
and our eyelids will have died long ago.

perhaps,
God must have been taking

alabaster casted around your oak wood soaked eyes

I coughed on you

and you growled like the tectonic parting from which it came
the continent calling with a Hades ringtone


it was a fair trade
an amazing grumble percolated through my brain

and drenched my senses in
what I could only sense to be
a scented calligraphy

flesh making mistakes
but a deep temperance coos

and alas,
something leaves my brain
catapults from the yellow skin
leads to rain for thirty days
and rusty leaves cover a hole
of my heart
ten feet underground
a trap unfurling
along the strand of the horizon
only in the morning
does courage ride
on the lips of the sun
to meet the dome of the sky
with a warm readiness
like your oven baked eyes
an ancient script
on the hips of the hills

our love miles in the making
an extra horizon away

it was a feeble attempt by man to glain the legitimacy of our rights

i slide my legs between half departed memories
plastered in a pain
of foggy glass
of red fish eggs as eyes and white pickled ginger for a tongue
perfectly creeping my fingernails down my larynx
to scratch at seamlessly
the words that were trying to act unoticed
prying their way past each trachial cartilage ridge
as a means to get closer to death
jump into a bold Alaskan lake
on a bed of ripe hydrochloric stomach acids,
frozen inside a cuneiform layered mixture of tissue
under a well of empty air
no arua borealis has been present in ages
no phenomenon but the one that tricks the uvula into letting toxins
slip into the tunnel, worming to the secreted stomach bag  
stalling to digest with pretext after pretext
but no display of tense pretension
just loosely taped claims,
jaggled, like a fifth graders palm would do
ragged and ****** and dismal like a poor man
around the corner
watching us
patiently