Yes, aspiring
To be that space where nothing
Brings disappointment

They see the streaks and wonder why?
They say I should man up and apologize.
But I am tired of crying in private like I do.

They say, I love you.
They say they can hear it in my voice.
But hiding behind my pride.
While missing you by my side.

But we all know many say this or that.
Like experts that only know.
But this time.
Yes, this time it they hit it on the money.

Yes, this time.
Yes, this time.

If a diamond went missing and instantly known?
Then their prediction is true.
I do miss you.
Yes, this time they hit it on the money.
Yes, this time.
Yes, this time.

I’ve got cholesterol by day
But it’s cortisol by night
This is why I’m stuck here
I can’t do fight nor flight

Five thousand trees between his knuckles
Crushing the bark, choking the oaks
Straining through leaves with makeshift sieves
Angling to find an ankle or two
Praying that even a toenail would do
But all to be found was her mountain laurel crown
Still tangled with strands of burnt-birch down

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ----
Sir So-and-so's gin.

This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects ----
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ----
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

Fill my glass
  of vintage
    pleasures,
  top it til the
bubbly overflows,
   as memoirs
    & recollections
    effervesce
     beyond lucid
         drunkenness,
   hungover midst
       an endless
         toasting of
            intoxicated
               sensibilities

I may not believe in a god(s)
But that does not mean that I do not have a religion

I believe in poetry