I've tried burning the house down,
bringing the dogs in and
snatching up every piece of furniture you have.
Now tell me, sir, why do you refuse to leave?

I crave it,
the smell of raw earth that is fertile
and pregnant with anxiety
newborn vulnerability mixed with a ****** innocence
desire, pure and unfiltered
in its most childish and embarassing form
the smell of raw earth is what I live for
when the grass has been torn up
and all that is there is possibility
roots snaking and enticing through
fresh ground, the birthing-place
of all things alien
familiar only to other aliens
I am new
and I can smell the newness here as I fill my lungs
with that which has been written and found filled
written and done,
dirt is the ankles of the world
the calves, thighs, and what's between them
forever moving and shifting restlessly, frustrated,
rising and falling beneath the soft fur of grass,
hoping
for the grace and gifts of the gentle soft
baby leaves and sprouts
to come upon the raw earth
and take it to its highest love.

I'm the fruit from the tree of the northern desert.
Where the grounds are dehydrated with  cracks  that run deep in their skins.
Bleeding the veins of plants to the last drop.
Draining the essence of all living things and yet still a victim of The unquechable thirst.
The heat forever calescent. The tree pleading to the sky for a drop of hope, for angels to cry and bless us with tears of joy.