I am born again
this September morning as
each thorn on the rosebush
breaks pink with the sun

the hummingbird buzzes by,
echoes and springs in
the mist of chamomile flower—
a yellow-bodied bloom and
liquid-sugar disco running over
conscious body,
conscious mind

a chord is struck and
pecks the roof twice—
tap…
tap…
and I see god for what she is—
suddenly and always present as
two birds dance their wings
over a cradle of planted flowers

here I find you
my little wildflower
unable to catch
the powder-blue butterfly

the breeze—something sweet
to wet the clouds
while mountain’s edge bites
horizon’s crushed and swollen lip

you blend in—a pile of jade
something blue to budding wheat
but no fear found
by a little scout
holding the spider with caged palms

how easy it’s been to love you
leather hat in tow
as you make your way to
snowed lake’s basin
now melted, shone, and gleaming

my love for you is planted—a babbled sunflower
leaning over the sidewalk
as you return home
skipping over cracks—
child’s play to the mountain, ocean, forest

you are the universe’s first creation
blooming out its chest—
there is no room for anything but you
as the pollen of night sprinkles down,
spirit o’ spirit
and sprite of loving girl
wrapped in candy wind
now asleep and closed petals
to grace
from grace
and the life in between

sheen spreads from
light blue paranoia—a rainbow,
tough magical, slippery, and krilled

to enter all but my mouth would seem ungrateful

rain, lighthouse, big money,
and the shade of fish approaching

the rope
now shredded, wet braids
to loosen and snap swatched opal
peeping, peering, ripping larger
with the rifted water

and so goes slicing red

quartered darkness drapes
and so the blue painters cry to
fainted and promised womb—

the belly of beast
cut and bled the breast,
coined the moon—
so said its rusty peaks
as they were sticks for legs
and grains of sand

womb held a note
womb hold me close
womb—the breeze
sufficed in c-note string,
the blood dripped and cooled
with pin-tipped vibrato
and so you would
sleep too—

dear one
and progression of static
where the real and unreal
meet

Spare me your venice.
I know it's beautiful, but
I've four more senses
And a nose

That smells stagnant
Water and ****
Floating with pretty buildings
On the Adriatic.

Spare me: its Doges,
its saints, its Campanile.
Spare me piazzas and
inquisitive xenophiles.

I've got all the water
And **** I desire
Floating in pretty alleys
Beside the black Thames.

thirsty soil,
hungry sky,
I rent the earth and swing over
curled in a heap of buddhist death—
a mischief light breaking a paralytic sun
so taught in no-thingness,
so creaked and crafted
as I sit at the bar—the last foam of
night popping on the bottom
of my glass.

whose to say life shouldn’t be this way—
a tempest strong and virile
as she lies clutched by the moon—
the nightest of night
blocked by resurrection
of a half-dead sun—
hungry and dear life of lost faith