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The sun knows where my truth is,
Higher than any other thing,
Exactly beside itself.

My thirst for your love
And company so pure
Is just unquenchable
Not permanently though

Miss Universe you are
In my life & future
So soft are your thoughts
Sitting in my mind
Injected into my veins
On the occipital lobe
Not doubtful if it's love

I am so lucky yet so unlucky
Not having you near myself

Multilingual I am although
Yet to meet you in person

Lies I do never utter
I only have the truth for you
Fostering this bond now
Empire of our love is founded

I desire to be your angel
Still is my thirst unquenched

Joyful I am in love
Enticed by a dove
Never sad these days
In my beautiful life
Far from reality is our dream
Although surely reachable

<>
“rootless in shallows of momentary mayhem
and no matter the change in horizon,
there is always some thing to be found
that could remind me
of the worst ways I have ever been.”

from “Harlequin Days of Fecund Fervor” by Victoria

<>

rereading these your words, upset forces me to break a recent vow,
my own writing banished, now faceless in the ranks
of just another poet, busted in rank, chose my own
decommissioning but then your momentary mayhem
plea, fecund you, your third harlequin, states construct!

stay the constriction, the recalling of our worst worsts,
for there is always something to be found, recalled,
that the horizon’s only constant is constant change,
especially the worst worsts

I am colored by your treats, your word plums ripe even
out of season, and the mayhem is mine only mine,
robbed you for it is I, rootless, given up my planting, then
the cobblestones of old new york, trip me up, saying
even old things such as you, have a prime yet to come,
stones fecund seeding, predicting I am not done, just undone,
and fetuses within this dying body, may yet be carried to term,
may yet, maybe, may be, but may be caesarean stillborn

rambling this, mostly musty unclear, so summarizations a
sensible thing, a pardon requested for clarity is a sometime thing.

rare are the days that the terracotta colored soil
darkens my fingernails,
it is dried blood from my scratching deep beneath the skin’s topsoil,
but nothing grows that’s whole, warped are the word fruits.
my soup is hot water with salt, a tasty dish apropos for one
whose growths are rootless in the shallow, infertile dirt of stones
that reside in the shallows of a garden of mine own
fecund may-hem of the grey fall sky autopsy turvy

I remember my childhood
I remember the occasional bruises
I remember the rare cuts
I remember the tetanus vaccines
I remember the injuries from wood

Shots on the ***
Intra-dermal injections
My father told me
"It is funny when the nurse does that,"
I was young,
I was shy, I still am,
Shy in my own ways.

I am very ticklish and
My lower back is more so,
My dad tricked my fear away,
I would lie stomach facing the bed,
Papa staring into my eyes smilingly,
And the nurse would ***** my ***,
I would feel a tingy sensation,
And I would laugh in fear!
Literally — I don't lie.

To be happy.
Not to be sad.
To be loved.
Not to be hurt
To enjoy life.
Not to be stuck.
To be free.
Not to be stressed out.
To be drama free.
Not to be weak.
To do things that make me happy.
Not pleasing others.
To be a leader.
Not a follower.
To be Me.
Not to be someone else.
To be kind
Not to be rude to others.
To live my life.
Not living someone else life.
To keeping my faith.
Not feeling sorry for myself.
To understand more.
Not to be mistreated.
To control my life.
Not let someone take over.
To rebuild
Not tear myself down.
To travel the world.
Not to stay still.
To hold my own.
Not to **** my dream.
To make things happen.
Not to fall behold.
To listen to myself.
Not to run away.


It's my turn to do what makes me happy, and not worry about what makes other people happy.

To be strong.
Too proud of who I am.
To let go of the pain.
To stop crying.
To be patient.
To be