With a flutter of joy
comes a deep red on her cheeks,
neck and collarbones follow suit.

Our creek and the sky
and the earth
and the birds
give us all the
answers so let us find
other uses for our tongues.

Together in this
quiet and safe
garden we have created,
we will share our secrets
with the flowers
and listen to the stories
of earthworms.

We will give
the soil
small tastes of ourselves
under Luna's smile.

Let us drink deep
from this water
cold and clear
and become one
under the mighty
Cottonwood trees.

pollen rots,
faintly wafts increasing death
in an otherwise vacant Spring breeze.
the memories of bees buzz.

melodramatically,
i add a spoon of honey to my coffee.
it isn't fair trade.
neither is the milk..fair trade milk?

40 multicultural minds
hexagonal attuned:
the IPI begins to gather
in consilience
some further future data,
worked together for a whole new picture-
target for debunkers touting
benefits of pesticides,
ultra-gene manipulation patenting,
cross-pollinating property.

i am a bland dismissal too,
not just touchy-feely rage at rampant death
upon death, on death, death after death..
for 'death has always been common' right...
as i sit here, sipping sweet and sour coffee
not quite awake




.

42 since I started to breathe rotting leaves under a November blizzard.
34 since I entered this body that day on the porch.
32 since I understood violence to be an accepted
part of life.

So many years I have carried this burden and I am tired, so tired.

So many sad Novembers.

But it's April now and 29 since I tasted a woman's mouth. 26 since I discovered how it felt to be inside another human, while completely inside myself.

It's April now and I crave the pale round goblets of milky skin these young flowers offer.
New rituals indeed smolder as centuries unfold.

It's only been 12 since I knew I was part of God
and 7 since I started hating us for being so close.

It was last March since I lost faith in you and I haven't stopped breathing shadows.
I am so tired, dearest.
What must I do?
It's April now, the walnut tree is black against the streetlight; the sycamores line the empty boulevard and I can smell the ghosts in the park.

These milky skies and milky thighs burn in
my skull.  January has lost her way
again as everyone forgets about the poets.
It's the poets that get them through a grey December.
We all share the same air, we all breathe
each other.
There is a lone willow tree, in the cradle of the park, bearing your divine name, which can be heard whispered by the ghosts who wander
on this lonely reservoir.

I am pining for dried tea bags and empty dresses as long summer nights bring insects and revelations.
I am your stone gargoyle.

Blood.
So much blood.
Bright red against her pale skin,
and his wood floors.

Crumpled, a heap on the floor,
she bleeds and moans, ruined.

Mechanisms years in the wanting, seconds to bloom,
he gave her the love she thought was dead.

Even the ones that know how to
take a big **** sometimes
bleed, just not this much.

So much blood.