i must hustle    cause i’m made of spoil
moist rice skin
            thinly incases  soft fluttering organs
mucus coated   elastic  chicken bones
                                          run throughout my parcel
they prop me      doe-ing before the lumy screen
     (the screen that volunteers us all)

emaciating into my work
      through this communal portal    i'll detonate my legend
    my spirit shall decant and dispel gladly
in the world remaining
    my cadaver will become acclimated
                        and re-meat the soil in an easy spill

         no longer alienated     my work will be    utter

We rearranged matter with our minds,
We made our children our home,
There's no singularity,
No negative vibes,
No distance between us,
Just a dream as we walk in the light,
Immortal; yet entangled in our dark material world,
There's infinite time to learn and move on,
We can't hold the matter in our hands, or our hearts,
Fear and materiality is not the true reality.
Let it go!

The illusion is shifting again
The columns melting stone to blurred sand
Kiss the River bed, saturated nutrient flow
Estuary, opposites mixing like friends

Meeting our ends, meeting our ends
The Compost heap rots and withers,
In preparation to add to the cycle again
The moment is fleeting
Gather, pull the light close to your Chin
Hold it on the sides of its head
And gaze, gaze deeper and deeper again

here's to every **** poem
i do, have
and
will write.

- thanks
for all the fertilizer.

I dug ten arthritis pains deep
The cool earth's full worth sunk beneath
And then. when old Midas gained sleep
A pooled corpse pooled forth from its heath

And thus revealed the pungent mass
Form of twig, thorn, vine, and berry
Banana peels and rotting grass
Slick earwigs, horned beetles merry

En mis jardines de brujos mandaba a los amigos:

Formicidae, Armadillidium,
Gastropoda, and Annelida all
Wake for the feast of the beasts by this call
Take of your share where the least of you crawl

Nearing great compost pile,
that steamy heap,
insatiable hunger hits guts.
And I know fortitude for journey
is contained in wealth of
centipedes, predatory mites,
rove beetles, ants,
nematodes, protozoa,
and **** of wriggly worms.

Virgil waits for me, as he did Dante.
He takes form of a sowbug,
but with whole of worldly wisdom.
Shows me circles to which I will fall:
organic residues,
primary consumers,
secondary consumers
and further tertiary consumers.
An ancient pyramid decompositional
processes the scaling down
before the rising up. Each eating
excrement of another before them.

One I become with slugs and snails.
Invertebrates shred meat from bone.
Flies make airborne my bacteria,
carrying me off to feed birth of
future fungi.

I am reborn over and over.

Never more have I known
anything more Godly.
Intestinal juices of earth, enzymes
and other fermentation
taking me down,
pushing me out,
transforming trash of my existence
back to Eden.

Cradled in her care, life begins young and fair,
Somehow over space and time
We seem to know  what's really there,
And when we die we are strewn
Like fallen angels made of dead leaves,
Around the yard of nature to be raked,
No matter what we want to believe,
Through all the years that it will take.

No matter how far we will traverse,
Even with unquestioned religion well rehearsed,
Renewed in morning dew, mile after mile,
All become the fruit of a compost pile.*

But that's not true, is it?
Life began with one quick sentence,
A crack of light-it must be legit,
Moulded clay, a rib from Adam,
In the end we all just turn to dust,
Hell will freeze over if it must,
So you can never ever trust us again,
New-age science is just stupidity then.

You notice the browning leaves,
Early victims,
In midsummer
Late July and August
And they parallel our love
Crisping stale edges
Edging inward
Inward to where growing used to be
I blame the sun
The sun of truth
Blasting unmercifully on our greenness
And returning us to the soil
Of amorous compost.