A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.
Nowhere.

Reminder:
It's better to be losing her in books
than losing her to someone else.

a.g

Sugar daddies? No.
I'll make my own **** sugar –
and plenty of it.

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

Where abideth in thee
                My love,
          Fluttering dove,
  In thine heart or in thy belly?
I mayn't though have been to school,
       Yet am no Passion's fool.

With hands weathered
and soul tethered
Jazz Man plays a sorrowful tune.
The flash of fingers
guide pain that lingers
visible as a shrouded moon.
Speedy knuckles
let loose chuckles
of the tired and weary loon.
The band surrounds him,
memory hounds him,
like bugs croaking long days in June.

Inspiration
and narration
drip sharply from familiar breaks.
His solo, it swings
from so many strings,
each attached to enduring aches.
Final phrases
briskly pace his
calls across lucid and lonely lakes.
And though what he plays
could be stretched for days,
New York minutes are all he takes.

Since breaking up is not so bad
why not get petty with your mad.
A vivid account of this and that
and pay for this and give me that
Of course the winner is sure to be
the one who is none
an unfortunate thang.

Oh to you
as the queen of the swine.
The lump that you left me has
settled its mine.
No further with purpose
its bottom at last. It rests now on top
of debris from its path.  Having only ever
needed just a sign of remorse. You knew
that already only prolonging the course.