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touka Jun 24
but you lift your head every morning

there's the power

there's the meaning
Psalm 143:8
Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in You.
touka Nov 2021
a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
and diving
into the parting, cracking,
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
tessellations of rock
I become.

too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into  





polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.

through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever
touka Nov 2021
I step outside

just in time, Father

for the leaf to fall from the tree

and the air is much too nipping, and biting,
and apple-pie
for me to hide from it

please, tell me a story,
all about it
about how the world ends and Your foot goes a


over on the olive mount

and no more doors ever close like

I go along with things
just as if they are meant to be

and when autumn's chill catches
I hope to have You sewn onto my sleeve

not that I'd ask You to shrink for me
though I know that You would dare to do so,
and have
and prob'ly will again

and I can walk the earth like You
with intention in my feet and it will be so


when the sun is just an augur
I hope to be sewn onto Your sleeve

and I can drop and fall like an autumn leaf,
and spring up again in the next wind You breathe

You bend down to hear
a calm in the torrential,
praying me a good prayer
unproved to me yet, but I know it

it's inclemence and drafty doors
and hot cinnamon in apple-pie
  Oct 2021 touka
F Unting Cuckface

Parading through these beautiful Hills..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like,  well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men..   whose tattered boots
   you are unworthy, of even tying..

Traipsing across the Badlands--
your long  red hair, flowing..
giving off a stance, (as if)..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men.. in tattered boots
   that you are unworthy, of even tying..

Raining down havoc,  on the Beautiful People
simply for their having  within them ;;
In the Great Father.. and Substance of Spirit;
Neither of which your cowardly Egostroke
will ever garner,  or ascertain..

But oh, you could steal..

And pilfer..
And destroy.

You will pay, oh General *******-boy
Your long, curly locks..
will take on a whole new color,  red
There will be a gathering..
A showdown..

A Holy Reckoning--
In that Montana field,  between the Hills
Along the Little Bighorn..

The River of all Beaten-Down  one's, dreams

injustice knows no bounds

  Oct 2021 touka
in the matters of what I have done
no other holds higher guilt

in the matters of love and trust
forgive me until I am barren of innocence
touka Oct 2021
we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking -
as if I could feel it

the same note I keep chasing,

the same tone
intonating touch

we were too late to you

it roped you in,
tired you quick
slick and quiet
going slack
into that subterfuge
of thick, dark ooze
sleazing up past your feet
to your knees
that sick, black mire
so much like ink

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils,
in-between your teeth
with a gurgle and a sputtering

obscuring all of you, anything that I could see

the swathe
the death of your good

where no-one can sort you from the muck -
where no-one should

no-one human

we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking
as if I could feel it

from my one day in the centrifuge,
the same note I keep waking to,

the same tone, too -
it is rushing like so much blood

only so much I can lose


I hate the taste,

like pennies and dimes


I was too late


good God,

I was too late

wonder is reserved
for nights far beyond the snatching of time
separate from even a catch, a breath, a whiff of it
the death of your good
no peripheral view
the clock so like the centrifuge

none such, because tonight
my head is bobbing on the reservoir -
the waters,
long removed from me

a breath in, just until its dousing me

I breathe unlike you
I breathe, unlike you

it roped you in
tired you quick

as such, too easy
to be too late

Good, good God

far too late

I rush back and forth where it's wet,
in the muck, in the rain -
find good, pretty things in the mud

like flowers in sediment,
stones I'll never wash

imagine my bones breaking
imagine me under the cloche

I would never clean you up -
what a charade,
because I was too late

you decided to give in and now look at what you've started -
here in the halves, and halves, and halves of you

where nothing's left

stunted sot
in deep misuse

in force, and sense, and centrifugal view
you lowered your head for that breath-stealing noose

imagine if I never knew!


imagine if I knew before the bruise

before the bells sounded
under my dress
inside my head

imagine me under the cloche
the bells spurring, jarring off notes

the same I keep chasing,

the same tones -
intonating touch

the same God-awful rush

we were too late
30 years too late

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils
in-between your teeth

the teeth I think of,

but you can't see, and won't say anything
long gone in the ink

the letters that cocoon drips off,
scrawls to me

in the rain and mud and sloshing sluck
going slack into it

and I, in the cleaner waters,
in the cloche

but imagine what you could do to a pretty white dress, looking like that

pretty and white,
like white doves' feathers

so I'll clean up the same way I used to
cover every bit of flesh

and somewhere inside of the sludge
you could call it your brand-new skin

but you say nothing

and I have no doves' feathers
only pennies and dimes
and a couple of dirt-caked treasures

and the ever-present, subtle sense of motion
that I will never lose
from my one day in the centrifuge

the same God-awful rush of notes, and

going slack
into that subterfuge

I decide,
our eyes will close before that part -

and the child in me whines

we were too late to you
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