He is from the land of old souls,
from the land of the willows and ****** beer
that spills over
in manifold growths like old men's beards
or the **** that covers my living room -
a damp jungle for nightmares
and someday the final battle.

He is from the land of disclaimers,
and disbelievers,
and organic fruits.
Haikus they called pop
and he calls my eyes his muse.  

The wine is self preservation
for he is from the land of do little, very little, wrong.
Where they grow the hot clarity I breath in
and weave the milky wanderings
through everything at once.

And I think of the orange lace,
like a 70s ******* bunny.
The crystal goblet that caught the light
and my lips -
but mostly the lace.