at our old retreat
tall glasses of sweet iced tea
air of moss perfume
prayer and books and quietude
amongst gently soughing pines

**~Hilda~

Have you seen the revolution?
did it quiver your repulsion?
sitting there in feigned rejection,
laughing at his resurrection.
Gone is word of insurrection,
take it now to your affection,
entertain his sweet deception
while he plays with his *******.

I lay in the bathtub soaking
wet with water running
around my silhouette.  Shaking
as the washcloth smeared regrets
over my skin. The bubbles
give my sins a scent.

As I vent I leave the shower
running so my sobs
are the only thing drowning.
The constant tapping on my face
keeps me awake as I sink into
the various stews my mind creates.

Weights are lifted with pruning. Peeling
of dead skin keeps me from
reeling into depression. There is a harmonic
progression between the faucet and my face,
the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam and
my own embrace.

I need this state. The decompression
from being bottled up, like a coke, with a smile
is worthwhile. It teaches me
that the expression of  weakness
is key in the building of a better Timothy.

intention never went far
down the road at the
end but then again it
never did in its youth either
through the years its only
idea of excitement was the
thought of maybe being
young again in the future

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.

If you nip it at the bud
The bees will be starved of nectar
The flowers bloom, only to wither away

© Amitav (Radiance)