Oh, the jar exults high
holding what we find to be dear
Oh, the marinaras keen zest, umami, and as I close my eyes
I hum the hunger tune.
Oh, but without the curved ridge and open space
the sauce would never grace my face
The jar! The jar,
the vehicle of delicious
who was passed through many hands
and crafted with hot sand.
Oh, tomato, garlic, and onion so sweet
and delivered neat, for me to eat.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
My home ran way
Now I sit were glass meets the frame at the window and wait.
How long has it been
Years?
Weeks?
I'm not sure I care.. I'm not sure I don't
The mountabank came round again
Selling me a fictitious love.
His love.
You see, sense he travels so much selling the good oils
of
Rosemary tilled out of our toilet, Powders that
I personally
made from the stalagmites that grow in the southwest corner of my dwelling,
and
Teeth whitener
scraped from off only the finest ingredients
of
Feets calus, the kind aquired after walking long enough to no longer need shoes.
No he had no time for me and besides, he wasn't my home.
I'd have my fun but... He could never hold my love.
Yesterday I passed away
The cold nothing
Became a greater threat this time
I didn't have my home
Nor my love
I wasn't ready to go.
In a dank cave somewhere in the Philippines
After the hair on my head grew from fire red
To silver white.
Still sitting where the glass meets the frame.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
Bake your hormones in silk
Love the stiff scent
When his kiss stays with you after a year passes
That's love
Well
That's what they say
Anyway
Rough love will leave petals on your skin
Remember that feeling
Oh
The anistisia of the people
Would bore you in comparison
Oh the love will love and love again
Tip
Toes
On your skin
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 5:40 PM UTC
Holy moment
set in stone,
Orange blossom resting at his heel,
Sitting at our dried up river and
Stirring the heart backward,
will be the closest thing to visiting your grave.
Set in stone
this holy moment,
Wet butterflies harm the scene
of litter and lives lived.
Holding back
all
and
leaving nothing but leaves.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
Topside and turned over,
rising yeast fills the skull with soft wheat.
The rabbit ran dripped in innocence,
mother sat in her chair,
ankles crossed and placed close to its wooden frame.
When the world spoke its truth, no, sang it,
all that pushed through to solidify her words were mused was a timestamp,
A personal account of all that time wasted.
Looking at this reminder of where you haven’t been,
the earth spat in your face
“Vivir y Dejar Vivir!”
But to live means to fight,
maybe not with fists,
words and money will suffice.
As the rabbit ran,
her hands grew sharp,
maybe the time clock stopped,
mother licked her lips
snatched the hare up and said,
"Yes, sure,
born into a life of deceit,
can you see your defeat?"
Plucking meat from her teeth in her cherished, chair seat.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
Boys with sisters are said to be better.
He was dim at best, yet, fooling us all.
With the grips of winter, I grew bitter.
By the end of day, my hand would sure fall.
Touch to love, to feel, with malice? I reel.
She came to me with news that bit my soul.
With my growing age, I lost my even keel.
She said, take no act but I lacked control.
In the crowded hall, I search for his face.
Languorous eyes fail, where mine had been keen.
His comfort and smiles resolved my distaste.
My hand harkened his face, a blood spat scene.
All the anger, all the rage felt in youth,
Yet the excited hand spoke an untruth.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 11:28 AM UTC