She holds my attention
Having gently extracted eye from my head
Rolls my all seeing sphere
Against every inch of her
Releases any fractionated fears
Peripheral intensity
Then she
Inserts me
Shows me insides
Mysteries unrevealed to others
Chasms of want and desire
Yearn canyons
So large at this angle
Light pours in
From her eyes
Nostrils
Ear cavities
Her open mouth
Where succulent mist is swallowed
No organs exist in here
Other than
A hard thumping heart
This eye inside her
Reverberates
Learns her dance

Grass cuttings savor an essence, if it were not for the flavor of gasoline added to it. Chores multiply in the garden as days snug up to summer. Warming theory of companion planting goes further than marigolds with tomatoes. Nasturtiums nuzzling cornstalks nicely agree. However, it is the editing of more combative creepers that keep this gardener flustered among the mustard greens. I'm inclined to let it all go, but the peanut grass gets so thuggish, someone needs to teach it a lesson. Yet, full eradication seems too vicious as hummingbirds do adore its frosting of bells. It's a nectar aggrandizement they throb upon in throngs. So, who am I to commit holocaust? After all, with the loosening of soil it provides when pulled, aeration is a welcome aftermath.

So it is continuous, and outright perfection in the pull and push of entirety. Now if I might trade that gas mower in for a push one, a transcendence of impeccability may occur. I might even breathe better.

Navels peel great, but Valencias make more delicious juice, and more and more comparisons come up. On the morning dog walk, as we venture closer to the highway overpass, that whether-or-not feeling comes over. Do we go under? Sure, there is often creepy things there, but the dog seems locked-in, so onward under. I'm not as mulish as the dog and I can tell he smells something. Usually, it is dead, whatever it might be, but sometimes it's not, and that can be worse. It's an orange cloud morning however, and dawn breaks more nicely on the other side, so for the good grace of catching a better glimpse, I'll brave it. Then, of course, there it is, an irksome tableau, morbidly funny though. Next to the airport miniature bottle of  Fireball Cinnamon Whisky, is a turned over pigeon with his claws looking as if that bottle had dropped there from his little birdies' ***** feet. I had to giggle, as my stomach turned. Poor dead bird. Things are really bad when pigeon's are offing themselves this way. Debating to take a quick snapshot or not, time lapses, and I see the blood orange sky dripping by.

So, oh well, I'll just turn about, and not allow the dog to indulge. He's a tough tug on the leash at this point, fearless little fellow. When I return home, I peel one of those Navels. Its skin and pith roll off nicely, and as I split open the sections with my front teeth, I notice the complexity of it all. Though there are juicy parts of the pulp, around the end, it can get a bit dry and putrid. Tomorrow, I shall have to wake the dog just a bit earlier to get that glimpse of a more red to yellow moment. Something tangerine may tempt.

Beyond the rusty and almost  illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited *******, leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.

Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.

Can you smell the lilac I picked for you?
It wafts over world wide web airwaves
As onliest promise of perpetual woo
Interception through an Internet of slaves
Catching this drift, shall we last eternal days?
Of finding attention, blissfully I your wooer
Atoning for on and on, or be it peculiar phase?
Flower's perfume, is it detected by viewer?
O that this lilac's aroma might mercifully mend
A nose bouquet which an infobahn can't send

We ride bikes
to parks in our heads
and pedal our bodies
to safe-ish places
  in our beds.

We spend cash
in eight minutes,
that we worked
eight hours for.

We talk about
our ceiling
but are content
at our floor.

We experience
suicidal ideation,
on a day-to-day stasis,
and insure our
  troubled vessels,
on a six month to
  twelve month basis.

We ride bikes
alongside trainless tracks
and wrestle, naked,
on our backs,
smothering the grass,
muddied past our feet,
we ride our bikes, incomplete.

Lilies of the Valley line a possibility path
They're pushing and poking their way through
Each crack of pavement endues the math
Of lumpish lubberly feet, leaving too few
How I wholeheartedly wish them all well
And pray the clownish tip-toe around
For bright lil' bells by their own can't tell
Who might impose their sacrosanct ground
So step lightly dear wandering and happy neighbor
For Spring be for Lillies of the Valley, hard labor