Beneath the mango tree
death turns slowly -
creaks the branches/
untouchable - the tears
hanging low above the ground -
slowly swinging - no more singing/
beneath the mango tree.

r ~ 5/30/14

My work of art,
My perfection,
My peace.

Your smile,
Your eyes,
Your shape.

Our love,
Our memories,
Our future.

My love, you’re one I’ll never replace.

A straight line delivers the illusion of control – the delusion manifested order could ever be kept in tow,
                                                                      or manipulated reasoning
                                                              could ever take seed and grow
                                                           against the natural ebb and flow.  
If each our mind a garden, work to see it bloom
full of luscious fruit capable of sweetening even the dankest, darkest glooms.
            Savor that sweet, succulent juice as it drips from your lips and cascades
        down
             your
                  chin
To break from the mold, let go of control. To break from the mold, let go of control.

as a child
my parents
kept me

well mannered
well traveled
they have given me
an abundance
of materialistic
objects

but

that is all
anything
ever was
an object

maybe
that is why
i cannot
connect to people

because we are

all just objects

go back to where it began:
trombone / cob nut / tadpole / violin /
you fell —
and i have not breathed it since
except that hot summer;
when we excavated
an entire roman village of chicken bones
from the soil
where now there are none