i open the wound to see the reason i would want to see that.
and keep eating my ham and cheese. woolgathering in the hemisphere of my own paleolithic emotional diet.
i brought the nuts.

September has no pet dander like the midday sun.
it burrows into heaven's closet of Blue... and no one -
suspects the gremlin of Time, of feeding the stray
Reality. On the down low.
It's always-
" How You Like Meow ? "
or nothing at all.
and September

i had come undone... but my virtue,
however unsacred...
saved me.
i simply had to be strange.
and continue.

my love for you is like an everlasting gasp.
my every breath haunted by a memory.
and now i'm used to that.

when we do not kiss everyday
it's like we never met.
more like we died
to live this way
unkissing.

the way the blueberry numb skull,
sung from a day's gravy-
and the whole of the Sea
was a flat Earth.
but nothing led to nowhere
till you didn't mean it.
the way the warp
is the way
and the void,
the ceiling.

you don't have to
believe it
but it has to
be true

it has nothing else going for it.
save the black hole
you came in with
and my very
best wishes.

but i digress.

you don't have to
believe it,
but it has
to be
true.

and that is how i say
what love
means.

a crust of bread resting in the rustic coma of the breakfast nook.
butter on a plate... chastening the sun with it's mule yellow-
and gravy on your toast because
breakfast.

the window beside -
framing elsewhere, condensing the whole milk
into a colorful speck.
as you wander off into the morning
before coffee... with a mouthful
of toast.

and a host of jewelry... made of sleepy.

your melodies betray you as a virtuous enigma.
i swoon to your baritone authenticity.
we are well met, and the sky has shunned the thunderclap
to display the sun, when you are near me.

heaving stones at the sun
all the while quarantined from the average atom
of happiness... more of a swollen thing
in the hemisphere of dark whimsies.
a child of an unjust god.
sleeping on the window sill
with the silver moon blanket
of moonbeams.

tender mercies have no mockery
and i gather you have soul enough
to endure.

we have scarcely more
than earplugs for a blindness
and all our numbered days
are slaughtered upon
the altar of oblivious -
as we squander our blight speck
of Eternity.

where Every minute lives.