She said
'drink not the beer of men,
for it is stale and tasteless.
drink your fill of the beer of women,
for it is cool and harkening.

'lay not your head upon your pillow,
for it is with lonely songs you shall sleep.
lay your head upon my pillow,
for it is in this sleepless night we shall rejoice.

'you are tired, not of waking,
but of your bones being uwarmed,
your marrow unsucked,
your hair untussled.

'come, into my arms,
feel the softness of my bossom.
place your hands on the small of my back,
pull me from righteousness and pleasure retention.
pull me towards your eagerness,
your egrogious pleasure.'


burning and aching the good ache,
yearning and fighting the good fight,
she filled me with desert heat,
she encased me with oasis wet.
for her; an hour of *******,
for her; failed musings and a *** bruise or four.

honey, I'm just down the hall.
let me taste of you,
allow yourself your fill of me.
Honey, only if it do please ya.

Listen:
You were never supposed to feel lonely,
that was not part of the plan.
You were never supposed to feel anxious, never supposed to know fear or jealousy,
yet here you are.

Listen:
I'm afraid. Why can I not see past the front of my nose?
Question:
Is God omnipotent or good? She can't be both.

I feel more comfortable now,
you put your hand on my shoulder,
I put my hand on your shoe

bad dream: what's your name?
I don't care where you been,
you don't care where I'm at but
I'm comfortable now.

A plan till September,
a plan for November to April,
Golden Hair Boy: where ya been?

Daydream: what ya doing?

it's raining on the stage of the showdown, get ready
get ready for electric violin


I may need an oil change
but I got my sea change and boy it looks good on me, a light teal with purple floral patterns.

friends: are you ready?
I love you and I got a plan

If only life were an iPod,
if only we could replay last June
as we replay Miles David.

Sweaty and sticky and white wine drunk.
Finding rocks for our lovers,
eating mushrooms together and I was so scared when you walked in the highway.

It was the only time I raised my voice at you and I'm sorry.

People change, they drift apart
and there is no courtesy of a breakup.
Texts left unresponded, calls unanswered, letters unwritten, their is no quick bandaid rip, no 'I don't think we should see each other anymore.'

There is confusion and anxiety and guilt and selfblame and tears, and I wish I could press replay on last June.

Instead "Kind of Blue" is on repeat and I still cry every time the album finishes and I still miss and love you

She said,
this is where the ocean begins.

salty and gentle
and rocking with a steady push
a steady pull.

splashing
and diving,
splashing and feeling with our feet for the sand.

the ocean pulled us outward,
the tide: eastward,
our legs: toward the shore.

striking a balance,
old friends,
a mister bush, a mister higgins,
the third and second kiss to a miss rowe, respectively,
respectfully: walking in the street.
a young lady with a name I won't try to spell, out the driveway, first left, half a block down.

800 miles from home is a lot closer than 2,000

And all your heros are gone,
but you refuse to take off the mask.

A loudmouth, a capitalist,
with greasy hair and a golden toothpick,
he is your enemy
he is your oppressor and
he sits upon a throne of coal and blood
with armed security
and a nation built for him,
to protect him and his money,
a police state, pat downs on the corner,
murdered in the street,
your daughters gotta eat.

He grows fatter and fatter still,
he loves complacency,
he loves contentment,
he invests heavily in both.

He knows we are strong,
he knows we are many,
he knows he must divide us to win,
he knows we're his greatest weapon,
so he created Fox News,
he created TMZ,
stealthily,
we didn't even notice,
he created NPR and KVIE,
he gave them masks that look like ours.
They look poor,
they look starved,
they look like us, but they have a different master.

Our master is the earth,
our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman,
our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks.

Our masters are not the TV,
our masters are not the radio,
our masters are not the New York Times,
they are not National Geographic,
they are not BP,
they are not our principals, our administrators,
our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers,
our insurance providers,
these people hate us,
they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone,
and
the rivers are running dry,
the factories are standing still,
the people, our masters and our friends,
they're in the streets,
they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER"
they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE"
"NO MORE WAR FOR OIL"
"**** THE POLICE"
"DOWN WITH THE 1%"

and soon
and soon,
The False Gods will grow so fat
and we'll have nothing left to eat but them,
and on that day we'll sit down to dine
and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty,
their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait,
we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger,
we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer.

The Bourgeois is our enemy,
they say 'All Lives Matter'
they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True'

BUT THEY LIE

It's the same Sun
but it sets differently here.
Instead of the deep purple shock
of the Sun setting behind the foothills
there's a light orange hum of
the Sun fading, sinking into the ocean.

A straight horizon,
endless, unmarred.
The oil rigs, instead of staining the landscape,
add a christmasesque luminance.

Nobody is in a hurry here
and there hasn't gone by twenty minutes without the crack of a firework.

Wuats not within walking distance is no more than two buss transfers away.

Sand; everywhere: the tires of my bicycle, the souls of my boots, bedsheets, washing machine, rocking chair : Sand.

Tank tops and shorts: informal
T-shirt and jeans: formal
By the beach.