Diametric opposites, polarized,
me assured,
I am

at this point,
on this given day
in these taken chances

using my time just fine,

to breathe,
and find my bearings,

things assisting painless turnings,

near perfect spheres, bearings,
in this same race, each have
being same round and round

behavior, thinking between letters,
letting the rivers
of white
in justified
machine set
type leave impressions
of meandering,

I have a sister lost
in dementia, me and
her, we have a marvelously rare history.

She became
to be come quite old, and happy enough,

some old pains, quite old, local shames and such.

Pain at personal scale, old.

Told. For thinking about old mindform we wore
uniformly joining
by invitation any weform reforming

after that atom bomb blew our mind's
and religions hell's
was apoppin', bells was a rangin' rage,
rage against,

the very mechanics of mental advancement.

Mental agreement, mind join agreement,

binding by my back ups in the may be book,
whither any idle word uttered
in conscience confident
all cons are gamers
with science
used as ware
under tortuous line
by line life's values re-exams
- so, once examined,
- then what, Socrates?

the plight
of the navigators
on Life's trial
of those dabar logos

whatsoever we agree,
any we we form, as such
weforms agree
to begin
to make a way, such as

lets any
with the tech, translate
with some hand jive,
letters writ
in mud, since Enheduanna had an influence,
letting ready readers write esoterica,
worth, cost, price,

coded clay tables, writ
in plain text, secure, safe, sound.

Your value lies in knowing the code.

-worth, cost, price, reason - one up

Reading the runes
per uses of rue, in rue the day,
Kairos came into rhetoric class, as warez
laughter
after pain, not
at pain, hoh-eee, here
woe, was so woeful just a while ago
freeverse universe uniformly recognized, here

per usage ritual usual
occupation, aging grace ag on

push me now,
ask me how

I came
to know, okeh, enough,
dabar
to say inspire is spirits, pluralable peaceably so

slow breathe, pearl diver mind,
slow think, thunk,
sunken

thens
whens
those
there
they the others
whens
thens

Zappa, with no acid, just was aware
informing any with an ear, hear,

you are the other people, too.

Yeh.
So.

She sang for me—sweet, syrupy notes,  
each vow a stone she polished bright.  
I wore that armor, dull and ill-fitted,  
knew its dents by heart: Mercy’s cleft, Doubt’s ridge.  
No sword—just her quiet blame.  

Now she runs, trailing sonnets lit like fuse wire—  
I love you a detonation in my ribs.  
No gloves, her knuckles raw from grafting epithets:  
Coward. Stain. You’re a bruise—not bruised.  
Her guilt blooms fungal in my marrow,  
a rot she calls communion. I call it knot—  
the kind you can’t untie, just carry.  
What truth? Only this:  
love too close becomes the wedge  
that splits the spine of every yes  
into a chorus of not yet, not quite, not.  

Her father’s guilt wore faces of many men:  
liquid ghosts who slurred sermons at the kitchen table,  
their glass bodies sweating rings into the wood.  
He taught her love is a language  
drowned in amber, swallowed to forget.  

Her mother’s spine bent like a question mark—  
a woman who mistook silence for shelter,  
her tenderness a garden left unwatered.  
She inherited roots that clawed upward,  
thirsty for light but choked by the shade  
of allowance, apology, stay.  

Siblings? Laughter fossilized in dust.  
The house kept a hollow where their voices once hummed—  
a hive of ghosts she’d whisper to at night,  
her childhood a museum of closed doors.  

She learned to cradle shame like glass—  
fragile, sharp, and she dropped into my hands,  
her lover, saying hold this as blood pooled between my fingers.  
She turned every stay into a shiv.  
She built galleries of blame, hung with portraits of me  
whose only crime was seeing her too clearly.  

Love was a mask she wore too tight,  
its edges cutting crescents into her cheeks.  
She hid the rot of guilt passed as bread,  
offered communion wine soured to vinegar.  
She hurled stones labeled This is strength, It’s your fault,  
smooth from years of rehearsing blame.  
She left fingerprints rusted on doorknobs,  
sonnets scribbled in ash on the kitchen floor.  

Armor became her gospel; she clasped it  
to guard the hollow. She refused the weight  
of another’s gaze, the risk of being named beloved  
without flinching.  

She feared mirrors. She saw fractured glass,  
a reflection too jagged to hold.  
She broke every yes at the spine,  
splitting it into not yet, not quite, not.  
She hummed stay. What she meant: run.  

What remained: the marrow of almost—  
a hollow where love’s name gnawed its own tail,  
a wound she dressed in hymns of if only,  
a knot she could not untie, only tighten  
until it strangled every hand that reached.  

Then—one day—the glass did not shatter.  
It bent.  

A voice (hers, but deeper) said:  
You are not your acts. You are not your wounds.  
You are the hand that drops the stone,  
and the hand that gathers the shards.  
The match that strikes, and the ashes that remain.  

She finally saw her galleries of blame—dusty, warped—  
were built from timber she’d stripped from her own ribs.  
The saints and shields were just men, kneeling  
in not their own glass, but hers.  

She unlearned the lie that love is a test she’d fail.  
The rot she’d called communion was hunger  
she’d mistaken for feast. The stones, her guilt,  
her shame, her own deceit. Her goal, to gain  
what didn’t need taken, but given—her criticism, redirected.  

She rebuilt walls, yes—but with doors.  
A labyrinth where love could wander  
without losing itself. Boundaries not to imprison,  
but to say: Here, I am soft. Here, I am steel.  

She returned the stones, now seeds. The ash, now ink.  
Her hands, once sieves, now cupped to hold  
the light leaking through others’ cracks.  

What remained:  
The marrow of almost, now a scaffold—  
not a hollow, but a vessel.  
Guilt, no longer a rot, but a root.  
And every not yet, not quite, not  
softened to soon, almost, now.  

The labyrinth she built to escape them  
is the one she trapped herself in.  
Their ghosts? Hers now. Their rot? Her roots.  

Press your palm to the glass.  
What you’ll see:  
not a saint, not a shield,  
but a child clutching shards  
she swore she’d never drop.  
What you’ll hear:  
not you will ruin, but you can rebuild.  

This is not absolution.  
This is the marrow:  
the rot that fed you,  
the roots that split you,  
the walls that hid you  
are the same hands  
that can dig you out.  

Turn the stones to seeds.  
Let the ghosts become soil.  
Let your voice, fossilized and frail,  
hum the anthem of the pines:  
*Bend. Grow. Begin.

Exltremely
Tender
His
Exquisite
Romance
Evolved
About
Loving
22/3/2035

nobody tells me what to do with longing
unquantifiable as only the sand is
exulted light dives in my hair
my shoulders are amazed like a cactus flower
your blood self-absorbed rehearses abysmal cascades
tigers are still asleep in your dreams
will you chase the moon on my surface, will you, tell me,
leave your silence on a chair
what if love is this cypher for the mystery of time
what if the pulse is a form of photosynthesis
we have to stay away from any fire since
we would exhaust its thirst
a step into a surreal second that augments me
second after second  the one who loves
disturbes time in its mazing grace
the sky this gestational field
the space between each word a cosmos
a white truth will repeat itself
again and again bearing witness to
life hand in hand with death

"I don't care if it rains or freezes
Long as I got this plastic Jesus
Sitting on the dashboard of my car
Comes in colours pink and pleasant
Glows in the dark cos
He's irridescent
Take him with you when you travel far

Get yourself a sweet Madonna
Dressed in rhinestones
Sitting on
A pedestal of abalone shell
Goin ninety
I ain't scary
Cos I got the ****** Mary
Assuring me
That I wont go to Hell

Get yoursef a sweet madonna
Dressed in rhinestones
Sitting on
A pedestal of abalone Shelley
GOING NINETY
I AINT SCARY
COS I GOT THE ****** MARY
ASSURING ME
THAT I WONT GO TO HELL."

How many frying pans will you buy and throw out?
Especially now they are worth a ****
I've had two in the last eighteen months
My own fault remorse
Short sighted reasoning
Is par for the course
To bite the bullet and go long
Has you singing
An environmentalist song.