The whole of my efforts have been,
as they say,
for the bush outside my house.

For whom are you strobing?
In tiny white and yellow flowers,
there, then gone, and then there again.

Whose bud refuse no way farer,
hermit  bees meander,
suckle, and depart in good conscience.

I will tell you not of our
Secret mangrove tenement,
Tunneled through the space
behind both of our eyes.
A place meant for whimsy
and bioluminescent fauna,
fawning faux sun light
out into obsidian night.

Nor will I tell of our
soul’s soft meridian,
served on the half shell
to both kind and prying
eyes, distant though
unarguably tied— ribbons
spun, fastened, dyed

For what end should I tell?
When your very presence is
Heaven.
And your very absence
Hell.

Sitting buckets of
lavender wishing they were
their namesake flower

I want chalance,
**** it!
Give me your unadulterated
caring.
I crave the taste of a well formed
opinion.

Spit bitter the dregs of conditioned aloofness, my children,
Turn from your beds that long dawning yawn of complacency,
The sickly lacksadaze of comfort and all those uninvited demons
posing as house-pets and affordable phone plans.  

find a flame and
fan it!
reject the televised red
herrings.
propaganda’s best honed
minion.

Careen from the brink of total self destruction, my children,
Bite deep into the fleshy face of death, its opaque nascency,
filet the present moment at your leisure, for whatever reasons,
Make your life a gun loaded with demands.

“We” are potential energy,
A book poised at the edge of its case,
An icicle dripping to join its kin piled
In the sloppy snow seven feet below.

Sometimes, in the night, i’ll doubt and liken it
More to the crate of eggs, sitting precariously
On the back of some travelling merchants cart
Bound to fall, cracking in naïve inexperience

And even then the local birds would be fed,
The pasty shells ground down by the passerby
Who’d criticize as they walked, to pass the time,
That such a crate should have been properly secured.

Then, on those optimistic field trips into the forest of
Myself, I feel differently; that such is more like
A pair of sparrows, separate but dancing, alight in
A mountaintop field of grain, idle hikers

Marveling at our playfulness at such heights.
It is these thoughts that I prefer, as my
Insides don’t feel very yokey, nor my feelings
Brittle like those cream spotted egg shells.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee,
this morning,
taking my time as I poured
as the ***’s cracked near the lip
and leaks quite badly.

I enlisted some creamer
for help,
as the cups dark depth was
quite foreboding; no sugar
though, there’s no need.

And then in my early morning
forgetfulness
I left the cup where it was
on the counter top, alone,
growing colder every minute.

Sometime later I walked back
into the kitchen
finding my old, lost cup, its
contents still swirling, in a spiral,
And strangely, I felt like god.

Why do I crave that terribly monstrous hunger?
Some feminine form to devour my poetry.
A lumbering beast shrouded in curly brown hair
hidden under supple skin, wearing Birkenstocks.
Kali in all her frightful intricacies hell bent on
destroying my word through consumption,
pregnant with my verbose imagery,
craving, forever, one more line of verse,
one more syllable to wet her tongue.