And tell me why I make such fuss
About a boy across from me sitting on the bus,
I try to keep his features running in my head
Such lust is a spiritual death.
I could not agree more but his style,
Costs my eyes a side dart and a red smile,
But something I tell you that I really must
Talk to this boy sitting next to me on the bus,
Maybe he thinks something of me, it goes to show, I can't stop staring he probably knows,
Or I am something unnerving to him,
What if I am?
Where would I meet him sometime,
Our only crossroad is a bus jam
Packed with everybody going back and forth,
But I cannot keep your face straight, what's the worst?
I hope you someday will talk to me,
But hope is not my reality.

Sometimes in life those pleasures combine
And ****** my world into a bind,
It's something that does with time
And one cannot achieve: says I

Says I the secrets that knot my breast
And things I know but cannot say are best
And every night before I take my rest
Not I not I not I.

The words are choking and abating
They take my tongue and my throat gasping
To which my hands cannot find grasping
Not I, convulsing could tell of those eyes.

Great auspicious life clamored against the tide
Throws my eyes that closed in sudden whiles

Great pardons and angels bidding time
To sail back in line.

They lead me on straight and narrow paths
So eternity I may last.

You're busier than the crocodiles,
Swatting at the bees,
avoiding mumps and measles
that carry with the fleas.

In the time I could sit,
and bade my day awhile,
but now I've stuck to moving now,
now my soul is defilled!

You were busier than a ***** cat
swatting at the mouse,
and kicked closed, of that door,
that once was our own house.

In his absence I retain no charm,
I return to a natural violence,
no my arms, don't create that alarm
that could charge him into that silence
ne'er echo, but that primal drum,
before manners were ever birthed, bring the
silence to my mind, the ***-ha-dum hum,
that beat I'll bite, I'll seeth! The heat
a mug that clouds my eyes, ne'er dreaming
nor baptized, I pray the body, the cross:
I exist, and, the limbs, tender, teething,
in his bones, in crux I've dreamt my loss.
I retain no charm when he is here,
For I never hide any whims, or tears.

Here I clench

to a root

to get fruit.

You, a sunflower, if I could be, at all,
you do not clench to the wall,
and there you stand, tall, *****,
to gaze upon this blooming earth,
I know I am bounded
to grip the brick wall,
and climb towards a heaven,
to where you are so humble,
I don't think I will fall,
when you know, you'll do.

Age, a concept, we're doomed to portray,
to judge our virtues, which year is best,
We'll hang it and proclaim each doorway,
and **** it to hell, when the soul has to rest.

I loved most of all
a cold blue eyed doll.
I knew that fall,
I'd fall for a doll.

Red my doll if it could blush,
how most I'd get a such and such
and my mind, a grove, a lush
such and such.

Then a doll raises peaceful uproars,
if it weren't alive then before,
I'd pray peace at its door
the **** 'll open before

me. I beg and steal for all,
I begged for this blue eyed doll,
we're stuck between ourselves and lawls,
that uttered from a cold, white, doll.

I've waited for you
to confront me and
I've been plain as a
pine board; I am warping.
Stick me up
straight and return
those favors.

You haven't seen my collage
in this little green book,
I speak all things, true as
spring.

Perhaps you are waiting
when the buds are sitting
on the tree and kiss the
air,
And perhaps I can breath better
and confront you: love and affection
gleaming in my eye.

Instead of the way I walked to
my duties, nonchalantly, handing
this green book to you,
but, I should have smiled towards you;
encourage the renaissance
of truth and the affectation
my mind has upon you.

In her spring, I peer at her ground and I see,
petit, it's branches reaching the sky
and I know, her cold spell has vanished for me,
its green, how its branches boughed and sighed--
Little summer, how its heat brings to bear:
I swear, it flowers to spite her cold heat.
And pink! To rival her sunshine, it dared,
and noontide, its blossom shrivel so weak.
And how I have noticed, her leaves have gained brown,
I grab the seeds, I will spread them all over,
I'll hate you 'till april mem'ries are bound,
Like it gained its laurels, to shed them cold.
When april comes, I'll love you again.
Time she is my enemy-- but a friend.

The lord taketh and the lord taketh away,
is all I can say,
when I smell the baying buds of may,
he takes them away.

He lies in some dark cloud,
to float and some big sound
drowns my sorrows out,
and moves away the clouds.

Little shards of paper
that haunt my passing mood,
I see it's true, it's dead alright,
some decade withered feud.

And yet the paper scrawled and mangled
spells a definite end for thee,
and as I look between those lines,
freedom, there'll be, for me.

I wish the bride were blushing,
but her face is pale, as she looks
at the perfect sunshine, as she looks
at her groom, whom she refused to see
till today.

Today she will be married,
I can not give her any promises,
but the sun does shine bright,
merrily, and the sky seemed to
make her deepest worries careen.

Pale, her face, like a ghost,
afeared someone would pass,
but they watch in dazedly peaceful silence,
And so the ducks keep out of the air.

Nervousness, the flower girls weren’t given bread,
they wanted to throw crumbs into the water for
the ducks to gnaw upon, but one couldn’t get pieces of flour
on her veil. And until the vows were said, completed,
soon over, soon finished,
the little girls could throw all the bird seed,
to please the ducks they called their friends.

On the bridge she will be married
the priest will bless their names at the top,
and therefore I hope the truest vision
encapsulates my predictions.

Under the bridge swelter two pools of water,
and sprays of water come up. Around the duck pond
there is a side path, where the guests wait, eagerly,
for the bride and groom’s wedding cake.

Curious ones will gather on the hill behind, or on the
gazebo. No sound will they mimic, for things are
found in quiet.

The bride, she makes her footing, on the other side of the
pond, at the entrance near the road, walking on her way
to meet him at the altar, but watching in a way,
to be certain that her aunt is breathing. Her aunt is ready
for leaving, and from her pale face, the veil hangs down
closer, as though a branch filled with water,
bursting her eyes, almost bursting, with hope clenching
tightly, to her solemn breast; the bride hopes her aunt will live
just one bit longer. The wedding had to be moved
for the aunt to see the girl marry, the tube that draped her lung
long, could not supply more air than a dying body can muster
thinning breaths.

Pray the sunny day will keep her close from dying.
God, hold that last little thread from snapping,
Pray, after the wedding ends, after she is given
wedding cake, for a breath longer, breathing ‘till
more breaths are no longer feasible,
and some more time
before she has to pass.

Where is the ring to put on his finger,
she’ll take his name you know,
be leaving behind her old life,
as her aunt decides to go.

Her aunt took care of the bride,
and kept her in her house,
home, she sacrificed everything, when
she was the only one protecting
the girl, before she was a bride.

Being once a little girl,
the aunt took her along to sit while
she worked, as she was kept
from the neighborhood.

Mopping, scrubbing, brooms, floors,
vacuuming, on her hands and knees:
no more partying for her, for she had a little
girl, and it was her most wonderful
blessing. She could not have kids,
she liked no men, and had no luck with
the things she found.

Growing up, going to school,
All mundane, filled with thrills
and chores. Nothing special happened,
until her mother came back
demanding her baby girl.

The aunt knew where the girl would be,
her mother was almost pitiful
enough to mourn for,
and her mother could not keep a house,
and never gave up, like the aunt did,
on finding a suitable partner
(That never worked out).

“Let me have my little girl,
Let me have my little girl!”
No, I have kept her longer than you
would have, I have all the paperwork,
the custody rights, the little girl,
she stays with me and no longer
will she ever be your little girl.

The little girl, 11 or 12,
Wanted her mother again,
And fought her aunt
tooth and nail
to be with her mother again.
The aunt decided to relent,
she gave into the 11-year-old’s
wishes, and the girl went to
live with her mother.

“One month, two months,
she will be back.”

She lasted three,
And came back.
She would’ve had to change
schools, and summertime
kept her mother too close,
and the ‘daddy,’ as he insisted,
much closer.

Now she was back, and she’d
finish school, inconspicuously,
walking across the aisle,
or the pond, that her groom
insisted upon, where they met eight years
before; she still in nursing school,
he a broker. Throwing bread,
bobbing her legs, she took the same
bench, he gave the same
smile, “What kind of bread do you throw,
White, rye brown?
You throw like a granny;
throw lightly, and it will hit the pond,
or hit somewhere the ducks will tear it
apart, and shred it to crumbs.
The birds are contented with
shredding gluten.”

They were in love, they met
every sunday ‘till fall,
then soon they’d meet for
coffee, and later coitus,
and intimacy, and love.

Do you take this man
to be your husband?
“I do, I do.”
Do you take this woman
to be your lawfully wedded wife?
He looked into her eyes, to find
one more regret, and stomach his
vows: “I do, I do, and you:”

The veil is cast, the bride is kissed,
the husband is happiest, or the *****’ll
make him contented with the rest of his
life, I am not worried that this wedding
will end badly, but paint yourself
the pictures of their hands holding in the
sun of a storm.

Is she alive, the aunt the wife was worried about?
Instead of rushing to the car, she sits on the bench
beside her. Was she breathing, or living,
and not dying, and seeing, what would be her only
daughter (her mother is probably over, the next city over,
lying around, nothing from nothing, nothing to show
and nothing to be but a will of the wisp. If God doesn’t
blow her away, then like he will take the aunt away,
and she flies away, as she is released with angel wings,
as she is released into her comfort,
and bodies that are rampant,
disease flung and broken, choking life away,
she died within the day. She saw her own one
away, tonight, while the once-little girl dances,
and let her be sentimental, because she is death;
The niece is now dancing with her prince,
and he holds her tightly, she mourns over that devotion
her aunt had given to her, when no one else could ever
give a ****).

Fingered old notes, they're tossed to the ground.
You acted living, but where mortals are bound,
little hole in the sky, the shining sun
I put down my rag, my work here is done.

Winsome bee at my bloom,
writhing and splaying, he gathes my perfumes,
He stayed and he waited, I gave him my heed,
Oh winsome bee, you are my doom.

In the clouds you are a column
tall and *****,
my devotion is attached to the
ground.
I can only ponder earthly things,
forgive me if I compare your raiment
to the jewels on collar bones,
and if I compare the sky to a heaven
and the wormy ground to a foundation
where we lay earthly columns and
hold prayers.
Forgive me if my feet are clay,
for I see the stars,
the ground I can’t leave and
the earth and the sky kiss
and I will finish my days
and live a life hunched over
and humility will sweat from my
earthly brow.

I’m talking to you, old friend, again,
for I missed you very much. I hated for you to
leave me, old friend, words I’ve known before are again,
I’m seeing you again.

I’ve known you all along, new friend,
you’ve come before, again. I tell such truths
to inhibit, and there, that hair that was black, again

You tell your life the same, new friend,
the one I know that’s old, will you hurt me again
new friend, just as when you were old.

Love. Does love have a purpose?
Does it sit and wait to fill the heart
and pump my flesh with a face
flushed?

Do I wish for life to go on beating,
do I wish for madness to refrain
my aching? Do I wish for love to
be married and dated,
does that love call something
mated?

We loved each other dearly,
it's though we bore a child,
a bond that I guess was not
rooted, but yet we pulled each other
apart.

Was it worth that loving you,
to tear apart, away, and day,
to see the stars in all the skies
make brightness flow in brightness
yonder.

I see the sky and reflect the times,
before I knew you, I divide the time.
After I met you, and fell in love,
I could have lived without my knowing
you, but I feel I'll die with your parting.

I whisper simple songs and laments,
death's door it makes my calling,
I am to open and walk outside,
I know that it was worth the time
to have loved that someone else.

I dug a little and I cried a little
On a hillside that was steep,
So my mama could sleep.

Each dig I dig it‘ll
**** me, gotta dig a grave six feet deep,
I dug a little and I cried a little

The birds I hear them tweet,
I don’t want to see her go so I piddle,
I want my momma to sleep.

Someday on this hill we’ll meet
The dirt is hard and rock riddled,
I dug a little and I cried a little

I’m the only one to do this deed,
The worms will have their nibble,
but my mama will sleep

I’ve finished my job and I’ll have to venture,
I’ve dug so long the ground is sleet.
I dug a little and I cried a little
So my mama could sleep.

Garments

It’s rare somebody could love you,
you who no longer see,
I wear you now as a tree.

The bark splits to two,
trunks break in three,
It’s rare one could have loved you,

The sky is a midnight blue,
the loam is a sandy sea,
your garments shed from a tree.

The rain began and beat in-slew
your roots clench the loosening loam.
It’s rare some one could have found you,

The summer grows autumn and the dew
teardrops on your leaves.
Your garments shed from a tree.

Winter I miss you, so few
leaves to wish, so much to grieve.
It’s rare how I loved you,
I wear you as a tree.