The seas are full
of all kinds
of beast

From the the
very biggest
down to the least

When asked to go
for a swim
at night

I look disdained
and full
of fright

For yes I no

Jack and Jill
ran up
the hill

And stoped
to frolick
in the bushes

Ever since Jack
spilled his beans
Jill has been getting larger

Yes I no

Everyone on the corner
was looking
to the sky

Jesus just then
came walking by
and stopped to ask them why

We're looking for
a sign from God
then they turned back to the sky

Yes I no

And filled it with your fatal presences,
The best a Texas Hill Country
Morning when the bluebonnets wept
While our bodies entwined
A sparrows song,
Your eyes enveloped the light
Of first day and I swear I could
See through Heaven's eyes,
When we shattered the noctirnal
And stroked the suns burn
Merely with unified cravings,
The deer crossed an unspeakable
Verse under the parting night,
I collapse in fatal gratitude
Taking willingly
The thorn of your memory;
Stuck intimately with the rising sun
And born of the wound
Was filled a cup
Encompassing the four things
Love:
Pain which your lips
Promised never to cause me :
Passion which endured as much as time
Swallows the years and closes the
Mouth of the things we remember:
Memory which sustains my soul and erodes my body:
Loyalty to the deceit that in some
Place when we were as perfect frames
In Time's womb
Eternal and everlasting
Where I pray as a Pagan
To return where no one can,
Still my cup empties with gratitude
And overflows tears I cannot
Contain within the spherical
Shell of your precision,
Cut deeply;
And with a despairing gratefulness
my cup runneth over.

I found you, in a stack of photos:
the 2D you, I can't touch, taste or smell

the first thing that came to mind was sharing a joint with you and spilling the chocolate ice cream cone on your skin-******* shorts

and sneaking into the Woolworth bathroom, and our freaked frenzied scrubbing of fabric with nimble fingers and pink powdered hand soap

and how we couldn't stop laughing
until a woman older than time caught us
before we could consummate

which we did after running the entire
200 yards to my van, wet white shorts in your hand, with me looking over my shoulder for imagined narcs and other freedom snatchers

when we finished, we shared my last Winston, blowing smoke rings in the gathering gloom

your shorts were dry, and our high
had worn off--you didn't kiss me goodbye when I dropped you off

between your pad and mine,
I hit a black mongrel pup wandering on the dark asphalt

I scooped him off the road
with my hands; lifeless, light he was...

I found you, in that stack of ancient
photos--that was the day we conceived a son, one you had shredded in a doctor's office for $300 in illegal tender

I see the messy ice cream, your naked nineteen year old flesh,  smoke rings disappearing, the poor mutt dying

though not for lack of trying, I can't see the child you had executed in utero--without trial, judge or jury, save an elusive dream
of freedom

Albuquerque, 1967

is a thought i had the other day
thinking, as one does, back
to when life was
just a little more junked-up.
as easy as it may seem, i was
a little bit more verbose those days,
foul-mouthing my way through my problems
and strangely,
call me a printer's press because
the grease kept coming and the pages kept coming
(and i was one squeaky wheel, you know)
and it seems to me a tad lopsided
how junked-up living overflows
into creative spaces, and
while picking through the flotsam and jetsam of
your overhyped depression and paranoia,
lightning strikes from a fed-up God,
tired of your long-winded prayers,
sizzle the brain's juices
and out comes a fresh verse to lay down
into another page of those worn out notebooks
so why does a person seem prolific
when they've just got a lot of problems?

By Arcassin Burnham


Slo-
Ly,
In this,
Life,
Right here,
To break you.
I,
Could,
Be,
An Angel,
Planting secrets.
Just,
Can not,
Remove,
You like a tattoo,
You know,
That's not what you want me to be.
Not stressful,
Uncontrollable,
Bursting from the seams,
So comfortable,
Given the circumstances,  like more
Durable,
A passion,
Like an inspiration,
If we're still friends , I'll give you an
Invitation.

Imagining when she used to fill it
Up with dandelions and greens
Set it the middle of the dining room table she bought
Same old thrift store she got
The flower covered vase from
And the old yellowed tablecloth
And it was always filled
With whatever wildflower or **** she could pick
And it signified in a way
Our love and dedication
How though poor we were so rich
And I appreciated then.
The tablecloth is put up
The vase sits empty.
The yard is filled with dandelions
And blooming clover
Lush greens growing wild.
Just like my heart.

I’m sorry I can’t be
The woman you always dreamed of

I’m sorry
I can’t make you a father, me a mother
I’m sorry I can’t bare children
I’m sorry I can’t make us a family

I carry this guilt everyday
It kills me on the inside in every way

I want nothing more then to start a family with you
Almost 8 years married but yet
It still hasn’t come true

I try and stay positive and hope for the best
But wanting something so much
( never getting it )

Is life hardest test (in life)