“Your flowers are blooming!”
“Really?”
Yes

You may think you’re a wildflower
Left to rot
Die
Be eviscerated
But i know your worth
I can show you the world
Of love, and diamonds, and rubies, my love
Tear your heart just to build it back up
This is how you learn
Continuous improvement is the name of the game
Everything shallow you hold has a price to pay
My girls not angry, shes not upset
Shes just looking for a metaphor to channel her emotions into
Something that makes sense
I could dig up the entire graveyard to find bones for you
Your necrophilia would still not cease to be satiated
Seethe, grin, master
Thats the name of the game you are after
I love you, dont you know that
Why cant you see how much you mean to me
Every time you say my name, i feel raw to the bone
The nakedness feels alert, on edge, on spice
But you deal with chicken and rice
Did you get that meal for free?
Im just worried ill be too hung up over you to know what went wrong
What could have gone right, what could have stayed strong
DOMS, that is whats happening right now
But who cares about the love stories of a girl from a gritty old city
One day i will turn to dust, but im a fool to think my words will remain
It doesnt make sense, no, it never will
Why we give our hearts to the ones who will never love us back

<>


a lump in my bed
————————

sheet covered, toe to head, alive or ?
call it lumpen woman, though shapely,
the thick coverlet says yay, let’s suppress!
what lies sheet-deep, let everyone wanna guess?

two arms snakily shoot/emerge, straight out,
from besides ears, to aerate treasured tresses,
blonde mane, lioness locks, somehow sun colored, of the
rest, a-guessing kept, I man of reason, am’nt a speculator

reasoning that when the world was 1st created,
there was a holy hole in my side, missing a ribbing,
leaving me needy for a plugging, a poultice covering,
a bandage stitched, so my breathing unimpaired

thus this how and why the lumpen woman is come
into bed and body, to patch and complete, warm and
stoke me, wake up us to freshly chilled spring atmospheres,
and other supposed reasons to compose only love poetry

Fri May 22
early morn bedecked bed
isle of sheltering

A 'cuse me?

I lie, eh? I know the way, but let me be the one

to wonder why
would I lie,
do you
read or listen or look or stop when al you can do has been done
al read y
and stand
waiting
waithing
to catch a breath

Up ag'in the wall?

If Dunning Kruger is all they got to throw,
you know what
you know, wrong ain't evil,
lying ly real calling right wrong is something only

a left hand wishing to make some noise
could imagine
right

clap clap clap, and **** Feynman
on the bongos
backing us up with a little James Dean ditty from
the Naked City

Times change, reality may be
de or re ift

in a rich man with a satisfied mind.
(if you'd only known.) Take another question?

chew and swallow and wait,
this will get your guts grinding reasons
the frontal cortex always gets

chirality inhibitions about letting the right hand
do anything the left can't imagine.

You know how it is. we get by.

“Sugarlump!
You make my heart thump,”
My grandmother said
As she patted my young head.
She’d give me a thump
Not hard enough to leave a bump.
It was her term of affection
To call me sugar lump.

Sugarllump.
An old-time phrase I grew up with,
I’ve used it through the years.
It means you tickle me.
It also means you are dear.
True the guys get a bit out of shape
When I say sugarlump to them,
But then I’m not their grandmother.
I am, after all, vey much ‘a him’.

“Sugarlump!
You make my heart thump,”
My grandmother said
As she patted my young head.
She’d give me a thump
Not hard enough to leave a bump.
It was her term of affection
To call me sugar lump.

But I find some people as sweet
And as delightful as homemade candy.
They are what triggers me to say
“Sugarlump, you are just dandy.”
So I use the phrase judiciously
For the fellows I happen to know
But for women a heckuva lot.
Every few comments or so.

“Sugarlump!
You make my heart thump,”
My grandmother said
As she patted my young head.
She’d give me a thump
Not hard enough to leave a bump.
It was her term of affection
To call me sugar lump.

you had a lump in your throat every time you spoke,
it should’ve disappeared but your voice became a croak

you cleared your throat a lot,
for every word that got caught

you stopped talking about your passions;
i think your heart had run out of its rations

you helped others out many times before,
but suddenly your reassurance was no more

your silences grew longer;
i should’ve known you were a goner

you left all these warnings,
yet here i was, in mourning.

camera around my neck
tears in my eyes
a lump in my throat
a pen in my hand
notebook in my lap
glasses on face
ponytail in my hair
headphones around my head
and yet, you are still on my mind.

(a.b)