Have you forgotten that the scent of rosemary helps you to remember the things you forgot to remember?

you will argue counterpoints and objectivity will be forgotten.
reality will remain inconsistent aside from pure existence.
you will illuminate countless experiences worthy as
being considered the only human truths
but i will reject your every word spoken,
in your every tone.
i will quantify your values and point towards my bullet points of proof.
i will not beg for mercy or ask for your forgiveness.
i do not ask for pity or intend to leave you filled with guilt
because if your argument was valid,
those emotions would not arise.

i thought of ants and how they colonize
and remembered the importance of my breath.
offset the thinning path
were pink and purple blossoms.
blue jays appeared to
keep the cardinals mindful
while the thaw of spring dispelled
the white curse of winter.
i watched their dance on broken twigs
and their consciousness budding forefront,
i thought about the importance to their dance
and forgot about my breath.

masses of aluminum color
regarded my need for space.
offset the flattened tar,
my chains churned in earnest
while synthetics fought the earth and
purple blossoms danced in their own way.
i am guilty of fighting in that war,
guerrilla tribes of rubbered feet,
propelled by accepting neglect.
these bodies are filled with meters
to measure varying complications,
none of which are relevant in our time.
but still i continued to fight and dance
and remember my need for breath
while the jays and cardinals
danced amongst the pink and purple blossoms

budding full of consciousness,
disregarding our foolish guerrilla fight.

no apparent fear while above the fragrant trumpets
focused leaps transpose a twitching tail,
"i need to be here....no there...wait, here!"
at least that's what seems apparent to me.

realistically, there is no above while here
there is no fear in focused leaps or nervous movements,
"i am home, it is spring, there is food!"
at least thats what i would think if i were a squirrel today.

instead, i am me. thinking about why Pepsi would
try to appropriate a social movement to enhance their public image.
why they would waste money on advertising at all,
because everyone knows what Pepsi is and how it tastes.

Instead, I'm trying to understand why there was more public outrage
over a stupid commercial while toxic nerve gas is being used against our foreign families. Why anyone was subjected to unspeakable crimes against humanity. Why has there been such little outcry about that?

Why couldn't Pepsi use their advertising budget towards securing a better world so people could enjoy their product? Why can't a corporation influence political world leaders. I mean some business' already do. Most Nations are just corporations anyways.

I think about these things and wonder who is better off: the squirrel that leaps fearlessly from branch to branch, the dead that suffered needlessly, or an American that thinks too much about these things.
I think I'd rather be the squirrel. Instead, I am me.

cauliflower balloons inflate from chemically altered exhaust.
upon deflation, they release clarification; they retain alterations.
cooked from breathing deep, bruised of industrial abuse,
cauliflower balloons are served to us with scents of rancid meat.

we are not unfamiliar to the machines of degradation.
appreciation is passed at the table alongside salt and gravy.
we are our makers and creators, not in need of names or forms.
we are not unfamiliar to ourselves but our ignorance blinds our lungs.

inflators of the inflated fill our plates to serve themselves,
forgetting somehow, who it is that will somehow serve their will.
deflators remain the servants, eventually becoming the served
remember to hold your breath because it is all you have.

there were borders between you two,
arbitrarily defined, a line divides the marbled gods
of differentially existing praise. praises sung in Goidelic
and the Queens impeccably imposed prose.

beyond the rambling border,
our division from all else contracts.
secluded by the raging atlantic seas and
ancient cliffs of inhabited crumbling shale.

our tongues and words would lash each others backs,
compounding our need to gather for a day of rest.
when we decide to depart this divided space,
our wounded flesh transforms into a welcome mat.

away from woolen wear and greening rolling hills, we gather
together where borders and belongings melt on mornings toast.
divided tongues and limerick prose now rest from lashing licks  
because now we share bleeding blood and a boundless beating love.

there were colorful rag rugs stitched
together with wool, spun sturdily to paint
the largest impression upon the floor.

there laid flattened pillows, stuffed of hope from
our compressing bodies; which fought
to protect us from the holding hardwood.

there grew basil on the windowsill. where
we were free to pluck and pair it with our cheese,
then sip our wine as we walked along the river.

where we were, there; that was something.

The field was cleared while sitting in remorseless fury,
Slaughter filled the air with fuzzy roars. Peaches rested in
Valleyed rows beneath the needless crumbled brush.
Kittens roamed tall grass like stalking Saharan Kings.
keening mice soon would Scurry as
Signs appeared proposing modern man.
Proposal's for expensive freedom, retired and
Slowly dying. No roars, No more.


Lies were baked through lustrum while lions no longer roared.
Seeds of stone fruit slipped from food
Towards hardened stone. Money grew again,
Providing ceaseless shade from an amaranthine sun.
The acred field cleared for lies concerned of man's
Modern ties. Squeezed velvet stone fruit,
Thriving free in field and sun, will remain the sweeter nectar;
More than your retired death where lions no longer roam.

scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.

you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.

consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.

through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.

you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.

take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn

is he homeless or on a mental health hunger strike?
is she homeless or addicted to feeling more than her existence?
is he homeless or a veteran that fought an unrequired war?
is she homeless or a forgotten child from a long line of abusers?
is he homeless or an item thrown away from within a pyramid scheme?
is she homeless or someone kicked out of her home because she
can't decide whose mouth she's going to feed?
is he homeless or looking for God amongst us?
is she homeless or trying to keep herself together?

we only know they're homeless
and that's good enough for most of us.

its still too cold around but,
the warmth of buttered toast
resting between my thenar space
and taste of raspberry jam,
allow me to forget this.
this wasn't always so.
butter repulsed my heart and
raspberries were meant for bleeding over.
toast would only burn and the trinity would never meet.
until the day i needed warmth i could hold,
until the day i needed warmth i could feel,
and have within my opposable apish grasp.

i have this piece of art they say is worth a lot.
its hanging on my wall above my most valued piece.
a sprig of fern, dried between the pages of a book, glued to
plain paper, framed in an old thrift store picture frame.

i like the contradiction hanging on my wall.

the expensive piece is roughly
three feet by four feet,
colorful and bright. created
by some contemporary English artist,
which is code for pretentiously posh.
Too expensive and chic because it's British.
Made in a medium that allows anyone
with an idea to become slightly successful
as long as people buy into the con
and like what they are selling.

i guess i am the sucker that i describe.

But beneath it is this three inch piece of fern
picked from a field in Bethel, NY. where peace
and love passed itself around in freedom.
it's held onto paper by Mod-Podge and faded
from some sunlight. i think my mother bought
the frame 15 years ago for some childhood
photo she never framed. it looks like
a 4 year old crafted the fern in
pre-school and brought it home for Mom
to hang up on the fridge like some achievement.

so when i'm sitting on my couch with
sunlight on my back, Alice Coltrane's  Journey in Satchidananda
being played, coffee being sipped, enjoyment being had
and peace just out of reach...

...i find myself looking at the fern.

symmetry is slothful beauty.
lazy in its leveled mirrors.
repetition is aesthetic fallacy.
untruthful in its attempted replication.
show me your truths and flawless imperfections.
over and over, again and again.
over and again, remind me of the fool i am.

over temporal oceans,
an early breathe arrives
as graceful beads of clarity,
carrying unconcerned appeal
for your price of star anise.
it has unwavering force
but does not impose a will.
it is aware of your awareness.
that, it knows;
and does not look away.
the reddest clay beneath our feet dusts in swirling heat
although at a deeper depth,
is moist and soft in slumber.

we dig to touch the difference
from where we walk
and where we will lie.
we dig to touch what remains pure;
where our touch remains at distance.
reserved for decaying dead.
when sensations of the body
forfeit to sensations of the soul.

cloudless, although not empty;
the sky stays blue until
the day does turn to end.
before it does,
we'll shout in ancient words
the values of my hunger.
our trade for meals of foreign taste
will subside to some nourished promise.
i will feel its arrival and
refused imposition of enacting will.
its breathe will clear
our dusted feet,
dry with bloodied clay.

we dig to place ourselves away at depths
where i will remain inside,
at distance, soft in slumber,
in an empty box from India.

with time accounted for, passing
through the first quarter of
seasonal traditions, vernal equinox,
charming wind chimes hanging bells.
my ears tickle from resonant drips
of auditory opiates. i let go.
calm crawls slowly to completely cover,
beginning at my toes,
my Sunday body of steeper sickening sloughs.
i only warm like reptiles in the southern winter.
basking only for necessity.
basking but not for reasons of my vanity.

i'm unaware of greater peace
when encompassed in ultraviolet and
charming bells of ****** drips.

i see sky. i see afternoon-ish blue.
empty voids. calming unquiet.
here; there is no thought of you.
nothing. it feels like
sounds i hear and looks like
sights i see;
seductive flowers on top of endless nothing;
perfect from its sacred *****.
i slip with drips and ringing bells
and let go. desire fades.
i feel an overflowing spew,
everlasting warmth of an untouchable
moving mass.  

you did not warm me this much.
there are parts of me you will never get to touch.

look beyond, where lavandula wildly grows in fields of fonder
look beyond, where silk weaves between trees of deepened shade
look beyond, where electric snow coldly hums a muffled word
look beyond, where salted mists lift above a cresting swell
look beyond, where glass dances with mountainously airy leaps
look beyond, where green is all the eye can see
look beyond, where lamps light cannot reach
look beyond, where limits end
look beyond all of this to glimpse the hidden parts of me.

look beneath those beyonds
look beneath those glimpse's
look beneath those hidden parts
look beneath all of this to see a little more of me.

even after beyond those things
even after beneath those glimpse's
even after seeing all of this
you'll never see all of me.

brick and clouds remain
in view on the path
between the street

the bag is full and
gears shriek of rusted time
the wheels fight to turn

dew rises as the sun begins to fall
the water sits and ripples in the wind

she lifts and pours
sliding an unwanted landscape of lakes
to form a flowing river
unseen before this moment,
unnamed by any man,
it shall remain so

yet this flowing force has always been.
touched by time and those who came before
this fact remains
the truth, which is carried and passed

solid in its fluidity
time cannot dry or change this truth

this truth now falls from another
through the pages of blue and script
atop the table
the water sits

Alligator's eyes surface.
Nostrils exhaling mist.
Even predators breathe
Before they feast.

the knowledge we know we refuse to acknowledge.
we all know these things and run the other way.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they come crying with a bruise       and they come shouting full of joy
from falling down                                       with grass stains on their knee's  
                                        
                                           ill tell them with a smile,
                                                        th­at's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they look up in wonder                       and they look inside themselves
and point to a passing bird                    and find something scary and new
                        
                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they smile brightly at                                 and they cringe in distaste at
their favorite slice of fruit                        the worldly food filling their plate

                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they find their love                                            and they loose their love
in beautiful harmony and                                                to passing tides and
brighter skies                                                            ­                      fuller moons

                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they have a child of their own         and they're saying goodbye to me

                                           ill tell them with a smile
                                     to remember what i taught you,
                                                         this is life.
                                                           ­  smile.

I've often found
That love is bound
To illusion and misconception.
Of who I am,
And who you are,
Fulfilling our minds reflections.
This and that
Will not exist
Without our own involvement.
Our hearts will break
Tearing apart
From internal misalignment.
Find your north,
Tune your fork,
Towards truths frequency,
It may spin
And twist alike
Pointing back towards me.
Either way, gravity
Will fall tremendously,
Exposing all, in their truth
And frequency attuned.

i found myself in the kitchen
needing a *** for boiling.
my wallet flat and credit maxed.
it didn't need to be new or shiny
because i am not new or shiny.
it didn't need to be expensive
or promise "perfect rice",
because i'm not expensive
and do not promise perfect rice.

i found it in a store where used things
end up for sale again.
where they sit in anticipation
to live another life,
to pass along stories they've come to know.
it was brown and tarnished
with some dents and a flimsy handle.
it looked perfect
and promised to boil rice.
not perfectly, but it would feed my belly
and tell me stories while i ate.

Life Plan: Live, Love Again, Die.

Unquestionable, firmly examined facts hold on solid ground,
Confirmed from living fiction and knowing minds.
But this is the sea, doubtful trade-winds, frightful storms, doldrums rich Of inactivity, the water looks fine until you dive. Until you sink.

Tropical rotations, influential easterlies void of West African dust,
Stir the depths into unnavigable waters. the boldest stitches will rip, Possessive nests will fill of cawing crow's imagining uniformed horizons. Clouds will hallucinate above an unstable phthalo blue.

Depressions created by uneven poles, so coldly separate but,
These days are in the tropics. endlessly middle green, equatorial and lush In figuration, continuing as the great divide between such chilly distances.
It remains the equalizer, massively active without the thought of day.

Unquestionable. Doubtful of Naught on land. these depressions are not For our concern, they say. They are earth, compounded by the will of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Bow; pray. Weep from fear. sacrifice your Souls for his favor, his pity will spare his wrath; his pity will spare life.

Unquestionable, they say. They speak in certainties. Not knowing the
Days when our nature remained unquestioning. A time before my vision Heightened towards perfection. Before his plans unfolded into Nothingness; scribbling pious fool. Denied of will, accepting the ill of it.

Placed at sea, our sails may rip and crows may gather together.
Their cries of fortune remain the most familiar. On land too, their call is a Familiar caw. not fateful of Godly affairs, or willful of the willing.
He was not there when the storm approached; Nor present as it passed.

He did not show pity when enlightened of our truths. Apathetic
Towards He, that holds the anchor when standing in rising tides.  
Apathetic towards He, beaten man of unjustly men, frustrated with Ignorance and misleading truth. Practicing rage, passing on hate.

Clouds of deathly intentions flashed bright of color and sound, revolving Above the stirring deep where circumstance crescendoed into a coda of Rattling crows. Where sails ripped free from stitching in the passing squall And hope had lost itself amongst the wailing souls and rising seas.

Unquestionable,there were times when faith drifted alongside in the guise
Of cooing Sirens, supple in song and form. Alluding to lust and love, Tempestuously adrift. Giving aim away from direction, only leading Further into Bedlam. Where the mirage of paradise appears.

Tilted storms spitting rain, winds pushed our hull closer to the deep. We Were left to truths of weathering might. Water spilled from above and Rose from below in equal volumes, displaced from equal but opposing forces. Differentiated by the sting, not by circumstance.

In it all, we lost everything. the caws of gulls, the coos of Sirens, the Hopeful sails to catch a promising wind. All we had were the cresting Waves of a torrential sea. All we had were the forceful rains and winds From clouds intent on freeing us from our undeserving existence.

No longer just adrift, our vessel groaned groans only equal to the sound Saved for aging beasts of dying mythology. The sounds of a beast Cornered in an arena filled with hungry spectators, out to feed their taste Of whining blood. Eager to watch "weakness" be ruled by humanity.

We held onto ourselves like the aging beast anchored to the groaning hull. We drank the water without intention like we were lost amidst the sahara Sun. We watched as blue joined together from above and below, Attempting to squeeze out life just like sweet forbidden fruit.

There was nothing we could do. this was no different than on land. We
Knew this place, in-between. Where our blood was used as juice to quench The thirst of humanity. Whether earth or civilization, we remain pressed Between, afloat in the seas of misfortunate circumstance.

Where we hold onto all we can with apathy to circumstance because
That is all we have come to know. That is all we have been allowed by god, Mother earth, humanity. We look upon all things with a smile and good Will. We know no other way, but listen for the cawing crows.

It remains unquestionable, that this is the sea.
On land too, it is unquestionable still, that this is also the sea.

I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.  
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.

When one meets another one,
They talk about their two's.
If each one likes their two's,
Then one and one make three.

This Third, a living thing,
Cannot be touched like one and one.
the manifestation began when ones meet,
Falling in love with each others two's, as one.

This is how love works
When dealing with arithmetic.
It doesn't make sense, neither does love,
When one and one equals three.

do you need to relate with me and my words to feel something?
do you desire to feel something new?
something different?
or something of your choosing?
will you let yourself feel what is, "negative"?
will you cut the anchor free before you hypothetically sink?
poetry is meant to express
what many unfortunately keep unsaid,
not because they have to keep it, but because,
more unfortunately, it falls on deaf ears.
yet when our words are real
unwillingly, painfully, happily, exuberantly real
we choose to indulge only when
it pertains to us. when we pertain to it.
when our worlds overlap,
what i call the point of purple.
we pride ourselves on empathy
we pride ourselves on emotions of the deep
but skim the surface to create
just another platform for us to feel "good".
sit with me
sit with how real this is
sit with your unwillingness to read any further
evan past where you wanted to be
sit with your painful desire of scrolling past
sit with your motionless hands, with motionless fingers
sit with yourself in silence
sit with me in silence
and tell me how you feel
tell me you feel real
tell me, we're real.

Where does it go?
When we forget this rule we call a comma.
Does it appear in your mind as you're reading my words?
Does it appear in mine when hearing read aloud?
Where does it go?
They tell us in school it's intended to create pause.
That it resides in the knots of two ideas
It gives a boost to introduce new ideas
It allows the addition of unnecessary ideas.
And separates excessive adjectives.
But if my words are clear and the ideas are clearer
Why do we need this pretentious afterthought?
To prove that I am educated?
That I understand grammar and syntax?
That rules of punctuation rule?
That English is championed?
That two ideas are related?
I refuse that. I refute you.
If you are intelligent enough to know this thing called a comma
It's fair to assume you understand context
Its fair to assume you are well read

Do not send me to that place you have created for comrades in forgotten commas.
Do not stick your nose up in my direction when words ring clear but grammar and punctuation lack.
Or critique writing with your "useful knowledge"
I will use it when it's power is needed.

****, Off

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials
Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline.
Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An
Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine,
Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes
Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to
View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs.
Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south.

Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know
Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper
Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly
Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood
Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze,
Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life.

Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or
Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting
Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death.

Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof.
Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of
Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls.
North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks
Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper,

"these bones do not crack with ease".

You glowed; I was the moth.

Morning light, wrinkles sinewy ginger skin as distant bells
Ring of temperate ice and softer shapes. it overdoes the
Oculi, receding from the ostracized mirror.

Sprawling fronds of living illuminated wax, sweats
As hummingbirds flutter, licking clean any sagging
Nectar; molasses colored like sunset cornsilk.

The shades were drawn but i could see.
Spanish moss hung and swayed from your limbs,
Life collecting life, swarmed full with inviting creases.

Steam would not rise here; moisture surrounded moisture.
Dew after rain, dew after night. there would never
Be a season of drought. ginger would wrinkle in the sun

And the bells would muffle as the ice thawed into pools beneath
Our bodies as we slept; as we dreamt. we flooded ourselves
In puddles of imperfect cubes. our tea now, would only be warm.

Taken just like the Queen.

Looked pretty smug,
like a teenage boy
that coerced his parents
to give him exactly
what he wanted for christmas.

i was sitting on a swinging bench
listening to squawks and squeaks
and i saw a little spider
no bigger than the freckle on
the knuckle of my thumb.
i asked it, "what is your purpose? what is it that you do?"
the response i heard in short
echoed above the noise surrounding me
he said it was "to live"

the more you think you know,
the more you think, "i know".

The Cowards Lie; A life lived.

She, Rachel, was mentioned in passing,
In a letter addressed to his brother, Theo.
She was just a girl that he had maybe loved.
Maybe more than loved. he didn't really know her,
But we would later learn how far he would go.
What's more than loved? felt possessive towards?
Felt protective of? idolized? worshipped?
These all sound unbalanced.
Some people enjoy that passion.
The yellow house crumbled underneath of it.
That unbalance must be balanced.
Somehow, someway.
It can balance the world.
It can scare you to death.
It can push people away.
In time, it did all of these things.

He lived where tulips grow as rows of rainbows
And beards in winter kept his face warm and orange.
Where the water rests high above his head.
Where windmills turn to mill the fields of wheat.
Influenced by spirituality found in potatoes
Being consumed under dim light.
Influenced by the subtly curved right angles of elderly woman
Hunched over, farming the famished fields.
Repeatedly painting vases of turning souls, tournesol.
Influenced by color as we don't tend to notice,
Influenced by starlight behind a cypress night,
Influenced by the ideals of an eastern world and
Almond blossoms against a blue sky.
He was mad. a genius.
A man outside his time.
He gave her his ear; the whole thing,
Except for a partial earlobe.
He put it in a box for her
And delivered it personally.
Hoping she would listen.

At least thats what i like to think.
'Cause why the **** else would you cut
Your **** ear off and give it to someone
You only know from a distance?
Maybe it was just to hear he voice.

There was this thing with parsley and lemon that i never knew,
Before jasmine bloomed below my moonless nights.

It came as a surprise when i learned the moistened bundles,
Green of scented lashings, took to whipping saintly flesh.

Holy was the root beneath the sacrificial lamb, white and rubbed of
Tasteless degraded dirt, growing in rows facing artificial south.

"Baaa-baaa", cried the appetite for its feeding in the field.
"Baaa-baaa", scorned the lemon lamb.

Seeds squeezed free as yellow screams dripped through divine ears.
Bitter acid, holy ghost, neutralize our sins.

"Nothing will be wasted, nor forgotten!" claimed
The shears. as hands of holy citrus, clip-clipped-buzzzzzzz.

Tremendous clouds of earthly fluff, not hung high as the
Gods do for fear, lay beside the feasted lamb of peasants parsley

Naked; purged; they gathered in stinging holy hands,
Around their false and bleeding christ , fictionalized death, fabricated life.

Lemon seeds i now spit for sport and leaves of parsley i keep pruned
From their rocky stalk. the roots i boil and use to fill a truffled stew.

i was talking with this man who told me,
"when i have a drink, i meet a man that wants another drink".
soon my room was filled with
thirsty men that looked like me,
because i pride myself on being
a good host.

it snowed overnight.
there were no indentations
or footsteps in sight.
i ran barefoot forever
through the yards and streets
so everyone would know
i lived.