drill
. deep,
. drip
slow.

sweet,
. distilled &
. crystalline
flow.

outdid yourself, truly,
politely with neatness.
it’s yours now,
. the sweetness,
. please take it and go.


dark &
delicate.
deliberate,
. divine.

tapped some pure purpose
right out of my spine!

like sugarcane grasses,
from sorghum,
molasses;
congrats man,
. you did it —
it’s yours now, not mine.

∙

I want to feel love for myself
like I look for in someone else,

I’m good, enough—
I’m brave, I’m tough!
Courageous, rough and
dangerly, abrasive
when I’m made to be;
(at least I’m not afraid to be.)
I’m “always, always”: faithfully
and double-downing loyally,
allegiant as if royalty
— You Are to me:
who'll ever be,
so already, I weep.


I want to love all women
like my mother never did
and I want to love the children
like I wanted as a kid
and could give or take a man for now
I‘m focused — have a plan, but if
you tap my love like sap just know,
it’s sweetest from my hands.


I want to love, just want to love—
a gift and curse from hell above
caught in this vessel I am wrestling
so I get all tangled up.

Imperfect love, but that’s enough;
I’m purely love and that is something.
My intention keeps me bumbling while
I figure out what’s what.

hold my hands above my head
— a fun workout
make me wish that i was dead
— a fun workout
empty pencils of their lead
— a fun workout
deeply dig but lightly tread
— a fun workout

full to bursting —
all I want, and just as quick
as can receive it.

...and truly, can’t conceive of
but believe you-me it’s real,
life of late a lucid dream: all
déjà vu and vivid greens of
lush and sparkling everything,
there is a future slate so clean atop of
fossils pressed between,
and other treasures altogether
measure depths of dated things.


millennia many,
lifetimes aplenty
I’m blundering nirvana-toward.
transforming and crushed
back to life, back to dust
one thing’s certain:
I’ve never been bored.

the plants trust that rain will come next
and whatever comes next’s what it is
that they need
and the ants seem to hide just in time
from the rain;

suppose I fill a niche, situating myself
on the top step, front row and imbibing—
yellow sky of a fog rolling under the storm,
empty bottle for capturing lightning.

stumbling, stumbling
but standing back up.
doing things better but
having worse luck.
the ground moves me forward
while time races back,
and one-thousand diverge
from a singular track.
I am stumbling, onward;
my frame growing strong.
I am stumbling inward
though that shouldn’t last long
and from clumsily running
I will arrive stunningly
just in time, loving;
alright from all wrong.