A little boy once asked me
why I want to go away tomorrow
because he doesn’t understand
that’s what gets me through today.

"So how do you feel about
Not being invited to your sister's wedding?"
Such was the question he had asked one Saturday in his kitchen.
It was a tactless premise to
The dispelling of his unwanted wisdom
For such was his manner
Of seeking ways to tell us all how best for us to do
"Thus and so,"
Even in matters that he knew not
Hence the thoughtless question
Which yes, he actually asked
Causing them to flinch in pain at the recollection
That they had been so wilfully forgotten
By someone whom they both loved dearly

dear you, dear eyes
in your lovely sockets,
your presence is poetry,
an experience i cannot sculpt
into words precisely,perfectly,patiently:
pauses and punctuations, the words
i want to kiss into your mouth
and then tease with my tongue.

i seek solace/solar/suns,you dress my fingers with a
gentle grip and your scooping motions-
oh the waxing crescent moon;i see-
now i see clearly that the moon
is dark and round akin to your pupils.
once an abyss,no w a world beyondddddddd!
what blithesome business

i once thought the moon had a
face of a man and I still do but the moon
found its way to a face of a man I know.

stark silence, silly matters, subtly, just subtly
i find myself looking up/wards,wards,wards
and enjoying earnest pleasures in p
ain/eeling/inching/ulling, an unearthly joy found
between my bleeding fingers and my nails
(or lack thereof)

maybe the moon is alive,has skin,breathes and
sometimes talks/i know, i know it, i’ve felt it.
I KNOW IT as i,i, i

passively watched the blood moon;I’m
certain and I bet all my cuticles on this
that i know pretty pretty eyes when i see them
in a drunken fear fun fantasy falling falling

and i form your fluttering fleeting
shadow w w w wwwwwww           .

//

yoi were(as) meant to go when the sun comes up

i have a bulimic personality
taking in
more and more
until
all at once,
i snap,
throwing up words
of regret,
then looking down
at what i've done,
and
hating
myself.

Wither and die.
Strengthen and grow.
Remain constant.
Go with the flow.

Move with the times.
Change its course.
Be loved or loathed.
Return to its source.

Solve the problems.
Bring problems to solve.
Bring you joy.
Amend as we evolve.

You feel
the need
to fill
the need
to feel.

A chill wind
prepares the land for sleep
snow-weighted clouds
brush golden-stubbled wheat fields
and bare clotted earth
laid out in heirloom patchwork
stitched from lean and bountiful years.

Poplar trees
arranged in perfectly
contoured lines
resist enforced conformity
their flaming arms
reach for each other
tangle and entwine.

Here,
good souls touch down
like wind-blown seeds
from distant lands
of sunlit love
fading purple twilight
and midnight blackness

gently settling
in fertile, protected hollows
where possibilities rest
and winter-over
awaiting the time to wake
and begin anew.