sunday on a saturday afternoon  
fills my lungs with soda taste longing  
flinging through words never said  
to spit out of my head  
here i lie on the bedding

sunday comes around  
to feed me to the ground  
silence waits til i turn to say ‘i found you’

saturday sun on a sweet afternoon  
week full, ate up my work til i threw up on you    
what was that last thing we spoke about?

like,  
just wait til it ends  
just wait til it ends  
sun sat day to wait til it ends

and then you know like  
it starts on a friday night  
we’ll tie our hands together  
over our new tv  
we’ll watch the stories as they play

of a life worth living past sunday  
life worth living past sunday

And then I heard
her heart
through
the screams
that trickled
down her cheeks

She speaks...

Times I prayed it were a dream
Panic for walls, desperate roofs

Other times wishing I'd just wake up
Goggles of illusion unable to remove

Temptation calls to beg for the past
Reconcile memories, bridges of ash

But squinting onward revealing a path
Bright & dusty, motivation is rash

Bones push on, contrasting desire
Canyons & valleys formed of lips and skin

Beckoned further & to pillar of fire
Collecting hope in a can of tin

Temptation calls to set the first & the last
Plot my own course on my own map

But onto the teacher only to grasp
If I pass when I die, then my life is a class

dawn breaking the black sky
I opened my heavy weepers
expecting her under blue satin sheets
all smiles or laying still, sleeping
my keeper keeping

the orange ball peeks out the barren hill tops
and in the walls of my sweaty, red skull I drove deeper
there, I searched the darkness for my keeper
in lue of her emerald greens
I see reaping the reaper

the yellow tentacles of the morning star now slash
so, I threw my stare wide onto the bedroom
sweeping for her, the female that keeps
for many a times, she'd play hide and seek
but no game, I felt death wound me inside

mercury rising reaches its peak with the summer star
from gentle kisses 'til noon to zoomed the reaper
the reaping it was in the huge cavity of my room
where the crossbones and skull spelled out d.o.o.m.
no longer my keeper, but the finest of reapers

7:17am Sunday Feb 2, 2025

a phrase freely borrowed from
Thomas Jefferson, strikes the
face while being delivered by
Sunrise’s
first glinting, both  eye opening
thought and event, a duality
intersection of notions & sensations,

for the early start to a newborn
week, making one think; truly
think. accompanied by a softly
serenading concerto played piano,

young children
laughing wirh shrieking delight,
as they climb aboard their hazy
dozy parents’ wedding bed,
launching themselves with
rocket like force on stomachs
and groins, all groans & moans,
and in the solitude of his mind’s
quiet, he laughs as he ponders,
a concluding a single concept:

This, this, is the business of life
“making yourself what you are…”

a potion maker,  
seeking the formulae
of the combination
of the
known and the none,
the wizard’s ideation
of the secret spark of
creation, the starter fire
of human destiny & desire

who needs gold,
when,
the power of birth,
the mystery of girth
the fluids of oils,
plus 57 varieties
of human blood,
in a precise tabulation
the sap of human cell
constructs, heated
gentle on a low flame,
do not forget, or regret
if the salt & pepper
of discernment is
overlooked, the sighs,
the quiet of boredom,
the leveling moments
when creation is initiated

and then
my heart can be
known to some,
even careful read
between the lines ~
the lines on my eyes,
the cross hatch upon
a forehead, the crinkles
where time and laughter
intersected and injected
the whites spaces between
these words

enough enigma…

never!

A day before workday,
Two before Tues,
Three before Wednesday,
But if I say it, I lose.
Four before Thursday,
By the fifth day it’s near...
It’s the day you do nothing
After play day is here.

The shops are all closed
And make barely a fund, eh?
You can rhyme it with that—
A name I still didn’t say!
The time that’s lit brightly,
Or an ice cream in a cup,
Your hint is that homophone.
If you’re confused, look up!

The sky should be shining,
But sometimes it’s not.
When they gave it that name,
Perhaps that’s what they sought?
Enough of the hints now;
Do you get the word I mean?
It's the day of the week that starts it…
Just check the calendar, I scream!

In quiet hours, Sundays unfold,
Lying in bed, our stories retold.
Side by side, hands softly entwined,
Whispers of moments, tenderly aligned.
Simple love, a treasure, gentle and bold.