the dense/scent
of winter-peaches.

******/fruit
over-felled.

& the early-tease
of morning-breeze
trickling-down
cracked
window-sills.

my heart is whole;
it is the dawn that breaks

Well, yes.

I am Sisyphus.

But baby, no one said you had to help.

In fact, *******.
I got this.

I mean, it's my mother-*******-rock.
I should know,
I picked it.

And yes,
I will push it up this *******-hill
over, and over, and over, and over again.

Just for the split-second that it sticks.

For that hairs breadth between me and death.

For the longing that steamed off my coffee this morning
as I stole a few blinks to catch up on my yawning.

For that smile that propenses
every time your lip tenses
as it sweetly condenses
the-thought of a kiss.

For the way
all your eyelashes
whisper
'just this'

For the moon
in the sky
in the stars
up-above.

For the fact that the Earth
is the Moon's only/love.

Cuz at the beginning of time
when their names nearly rhymed,
Oh the Moon,
she spun
fast-as-a-top.

So close to the locus
the Earth couldn't focus
onthat sweet-swallowed-secret
that Reva-in-Rock.

So the Moon was embarrassed!

Cuz the Earth couldn't see
just how beautiful cavernous moon-dust could be
and-Yeah
cleverer/lovers might have found other/druthers
but that Moon, she's as shy as can be.

So she took a step back.

In the hopes that this tact
might help her sweet-lady to see
the slow unfolding of her smile
an expansion of existence
to put infinity to trial
and every singularity
hidden in her grin
held a small
hiccup-of-hope
to the edges of its skin
cuz the scantest
scrap-of-chance
that this ruse might just still win
makes the act of
pitching-woo
look a little like a sin
but-****
don't it
Feel-Divine?

Just give me time.

I will find your lines and cross them.

If you let me laugh with you
I'll help you see how ******* me
is like eating the space between the phrase
'I-double-dog-dare-you'
and the word
'please'

You can't blame a Beast for Being
when existing is the only thing it owns and
honing-that-ferocious tends to try-the-tamer
cuz this
exercise-in-earthly
will never make me saner.

I got a-Beast.
With bones that moan.

She sleeps inside a cold-cave-stone,
don't-gather-no-moss.

She spends moonlights roaming countrysides,

and pushing rocks
to prove she's live.

I think about the ache
that cracking predicates itself upon.

How all-my-young-life
I wished for the snapping/satisfaction
of sinewed bone releasing pressure into atmosphere at will.

As if nursing-up some
small/combust/filled/living
till it's ripe with honeycomb and milk
only to set it loose in/of the wild-wood at night.

It's not that way though is it?

It's fissures in the ice
which rise from warmth.

A low/persistent/river
flowing steady through the reeds
till each they dry
and crackle-in-the-current.

There's something about the way
the air-weighs before it rains.

Like it aches with water,
decided not to swallow mid- sip.

A whole mouthful of wet
lazing around the root of your tongue.

Lips sealed-up
around a mess
of falling
out.

What it is,
is good.
And so was
what it was.