of desire
is painful and pervading my body
physically, like literally, i can feel
the heat in my legs, the
stinging lightness in my joints
and of course the throbbing in my head,
funny that the stunted, clogged,
wheel and cog of my hog
is frozen solid
and you're turning every corner
to make sure it stays that way for you
but it cannot. everyday
i imagine what it would be like
for desire to meet desire,
and it disgusts me
as you've defined my normal
and scared me shitless into thinking otherwise
through classical conditioning
and punishment of action.
Don't try to kiss me,
for fear of me lashing you
with my tongue, but no not literally, don't
even try it.
Tell me about everything you desire
and I will shove it back in your sick head
and beat the **** out of it,
so the sly fox of desire is a ****** ferret,
****** too many times by a bear, and then killed and eaten.
It's a way of life, you tell me the circle and nature of things as they
are. And you say you're just a bee buzzing, and I think the opposite
you're a bee struggling on its back on the ground,
doused in water, and unable to fly.
And I'm there trying to buzz you back to life,
but I've lost my stinger, and here's the kicker,
yours is ready to sting me, mine, back into drive
but you just want to stay on your back,
even when the water drys.

Living without a root, but
with a flower,
you know as well as i
is
a terribly large and
loud void. Let’s call it
hell.
do you see the pattern, do
you
blow your fuse when the ducks don’t
dry in order, when the towels don’t fold according to
your structure and form your
hair—which is
just a vessel
to appear beautiful and
annoy the senses, upon which the hair falls on
me?

time.
That;s why I try to stop
you.

Take my hand, my stupid jokes, and mix in
your unfettered passion, which hastens me,
raging and ready to kiss. Time like a thin
sea, is running to the cold ocean, free

of premonition, heavy with waiting
an extra second, to think over my
attitude and confidence. Then, kissing
and forgetting any thing or thought more.

Go with me in the black canoe. We won’t
drown, but we might fall, because the ocean—
your ocean, is not made of water. Loaned
sorrows are due soon, so cut commotion

in half and use one part to love me when
it hurts, and the other to hate me again.

a lone tower its ivy bears one berry

The plum I’ve been waiting
to ripen
is a bit past ripe; in the fruit bowl,
the bananas speckled brown;
the lemons show no sign of age.

Monday morning I forget the plum,
which now may be a bit too sweet.
Thursday,
I buy fresh produce
on the way home.
I get a call
from my father
about my mother.

Forgotten,
beneath brighter flora,
the plum
in royal colors
sits in the bottom of the fruit bowl.

At home
two Google searches:
what to make with past ripe plums
why don’t I cry when someone dies

Non stop ringing
The hum drum dryer
life is fluff