At the beginning of 2020, Australia was on fire.
The threat of WWIII was all too real.
Baby dictators playing with "disposable" human lives.

Disposable lives
Disposable masks
Disposable gloves
Disposable plastic bags
. . . and here were are again with disposable lives.

My family and I survived the Oregon trail and not one of us died from dysentery. A small victory!

George Floyd, "I can't breath."
Black Lives Matter.  
LGBTQ+ Lives Matter.

Marching in the streets and shouting until I can't speak. Organizing and criticizing institutions that WE built. People WE put into office. And my more political topics that WE are responsible for.

Black Lives Still Matter.
LQBTQ+ Lives Still Matter.
Anti-maskers, "I can't breath."

A shame and a reflection in the United States education system.

Me walking my dogs, "I can't breath. . . without a mask"
Ashes falling from our apocalypses skys.
My skin burns from the air.
I my dog sneezing because they don't have masks.
My mask discolored from this short walk.

Exposed
Double Down
Tested
Isolate
Negative
Relief
Virtual Life

A light at the end of this long tunnel?
Good-bye Oregon!
2021, let's try Utah?

It feels good,
done right, it feels good.
It touches good
life,
the quality, the measurable
usable weight, the worth
of thinking, right,
like
I KNOW
this is good, this gift, this pain
reminding me,
death happens all the time,
putting me in mind as a chooser,
chance taker,
cheater, by God, if I know what
I thought
I knew…

craps, roll again, I'm rich.
I got all the time in the world.

When you win right, nobody loses.

Turn the lights on,
so you can see my body
shimmering,
glazed by the honey shea cocoa butter.
Like a crystal reflecting the vanilla notes of the sweet somethings floating off of your tongue.

I come to you, eyes focused on yours.
You mean so much to me,
enough for me to expose my body.
Look at me,
Tell me, what do you see...

I don't usually crave milk chocolate,
the warm and hypnotic taste,
pouring down my throat,
into my spirit.

I can't help it right now,
Because you have my hips in your grip,

Rocking and falling,
swinging and calling
baby
baby
I feel intoxicated in this honey shea cocoa butter.

I bite my lip,
and I reach in for a kiss
slipping,
sliding,
my mouth and yours,
reaching for each other,
to get closer
Caressing your body,
with my fingers,
writing love tones with my features

Trailing your art with my words,
writing them all with my tongue,
down
down
down


you're looking at me,
but not with just your eyes
exposed,
Your body's staring back at me too
shimmering with the honey shea cocoa butter

I didn't use to be this way
At least not with anyone else
But then you touched my soul
So Let me touch yours too

Shamed by my body for so long,
scars,
marks,
a healing broken heart.

Walls built by the past,
I didn't think I'd meet a soul that could get through the last
But you're a surprise

Looking at me
A hot chocolate serenity,
Love bites,
******* on your skin,
let me in
I want to touch your soul too

Let's make love, like a love poem can do

How well I know this place, I’m trapped in these interiors.
I refuse to step on cracks and I avoid the hateful mirrors.

I’m watching like a cat the many motions of the heavens.
I’m straining like a witch to extend my intuition.

I'm looking for hidden patterns in odd numbers that show up.
I’m sorting out the tea leaves that my mom leaves in her cup.

I’m sure I hear the whispering of the moon on predawn walks.
I think I’d hear the angels - should one decide to talk.

Oh, God, I need some answers - I've become a hopeless mess -
show me secret signs or release it to the press.

You know I wait impatiently, with several billion friends,
for my vaccine miracle - when will this virus end?!

He's a gentle giant
Tiptoeing around his soul flower
Delicately nurturing the delicate entity
In awe, he gawks from suns to moons
Pondering in anticipation, this wonder flower's bloom
Such a marveling creation, he wants to support forever
But he's so very very big
He could crush the little thing
And so he can never get too close.

As gentle as he may be, he will never be so gentle it doesn't break the flower
So he may only enjoy the flower from a distance, never being able to entwine
Until one day the flower blooms and evolves from a flower to a tree
For a soul-flower is complex enough to be this free
And it's roots caressed the giant's body, gently uniting with its everlasting partner in time

Becoming one, like the tree on top of the giant hill
Together, they slumber forever, in each other's presence, content, and still.

People visit this soul tree from time and time
For many believe that this tree will grant you the sight to obtain your own true love, you'll see

There was a time where this giant thought it would never get to truly love the soul-flower but could nurture it from a distance, and it did so happily.

This nurturing little did the giant know, caused it to bloom big enough to withstand the giant's strength, forming its own strength, in which it used to become one with the giant, for the love of one was so powerful that it amplified the being of the other.

I’m living through a pandemic.
The sum of our daily lives has been reduced to monotony
that renders me insane some mornings and free the next.
I awake to news of just-discovered symptoms,
and incoherent ramblings of injecting Lysol from that man
and the susceptible deaths of the poor and the Black –
at least some things never change.
I have come to savor the simple pleasures
of food, fresh air and do-nothings.
Yet, my body finds a craving for chaos,
the feeling of running with your eyes wide shut.
I stay inside, my house and myself,
and feel, feel, feel.
A thing no one has time for in a world for profit.
A thing we have all the time in the world to do these days.

Fruitless efforts left
Me bruised like a Georgia peach
So sweet nonetheless

2020 nears end, still grasping a warmth that does not belong to her. i feel alive with her reluctance to let go. these hands have known no loosening, their pals hollowed from tirelessly gripping onto things as we do words. i don't even remember what are in these hands, i wonder if 2020 does either. we all, i suppose, are at fault here; helplessly bestowing too many promises of life and experience on her shoulders, ignorant to her plans of making a spectacle of us. do not mock me 2020, i walked into you as blind as i was bold. we are all so removed from the envy of earlier years — of age, of divinity, of promises, of all the smiles we knew were enough for the time being. now, there is nothing but the feeling of a wind biting against our cheeks and the bitter after taste of hope. what are our days, our years, our time, truly worth in the end?