my ******* affair
a blood covenant
continues negative on the balance sheets
a constant power struggle
my soul and unwavering obedience the prize
secretly a grudge grows
(encouraged by continual love famine
inclined by love withdrawal punishment)
poisoning the source

uncomprehensible to me
why i am always found unworthy
fathers love, blessing and protection
unattainable
withdrawal, nonacceptance and deliberate bad wishes
fertilizes the acre
what will the harvest be
tug of war for my sanity
my Heavenly Father and mum
vs
the enemy and dad
forge in this firepit
born among ashes

Water the Greenhouse
Water the plants on the deck.
Walk Autumn Moon.

Salutation to the Sun
Yoga on the deck
Prayers
Angel of Air
Reading & Study with Ken
Sipping herbals & he, his coffee.

Pick up.
Moving the living room furniture
Rearranging. Sweeping. Mopping.
Clean the kennel.
Fresh bedding for Autumn.

A break for Sevenfold Peace in the sunshine.
Listening to the Holy Stream of Sound.

Playing with Autumn.
Laughing with Ken.
Continuing with rearranging & cleaning
Done!

Another break
With Ken, Autumn & Habibie
By the firepit in front of the shop.
Auti chasing water up and down and around.

Walk to Alli's, talk and pick up the key.
Cut broccoli, cabbage, carrots, & kale
Add a few pods of peas
Drizzle poppy seed dressing.

Two bowls with 1/2 cup of rolled oats each
Add cinnamon.
Taking a teaspoon
Half full with honey.
Dipping it into the center of the oats
Pouring boiling water over the honey.
Into the oats.

Stirring and stirring
Watching the cinnamon spirals
Mix into the sweet porridge.

Small cacao chips, sunflower seeds
A few raisins
Sprinkled as garnish.  

Eating together
Smallville, playing with Autumn
Habibie resting near by.
She maybe carrying kittens.
Too early to tell.

Tired. Good night. Sleep.
2:30 am.
Ken up watching a movie on is phone.
My, my, how times have changed.

Return to bed.
Writing, writing, writing….now it is done.

I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
                                          driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.  

I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
                                      McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.  
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.  
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
                                      used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
                                                                ­                     the end of the street.  

The sweet smell of cigar smoke.  The ice cold splash of the garden hose.  The pop of a bubble.  The sting of soap in the eye.  Dreams by The Cranberries.  As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys.  A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging.  The deer in the backyard looking for corn.  The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.

My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened.  I cannot ask him.  
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)  
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.  
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.  
                            Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.  
                                                     Co­vered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.  

There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
                                     I think I was before the trauma.  
We are two different people.  A yin and a yang.  A day and a night.  
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.  
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.

Soft rhythmic ticking of a mechanical heart,
You scream for silence,
But she ticks on.
You stand still,
Bathing in the winter sun,
Burning in the blinding snow,
Which way do we go?
Which route do we take.
It's a straight shot to the other side from here,
Formless spirits tempt you with dreams.
Break enough rules,
And they will crown you Eagle King,
Soaring above the common man,
In self appointed wings,
You watch everything,
You look down upon the lesser flightless creatures.
Dust covered unopened books fill up the library,
Once a prospering civilization,
They have been reduced to brainwashed moths,
They go where the light takes them.
Watchful eyes cover the walls of this city,
Every movement tracked,
Every voice heard,
Everyone watched.
The night offers the promise of freedom,
Climb the wall and escape,
The world is new,
The world is you.
Three hundred miles away,
Your ****** feet leave a trail,
The vultures are waiting.
Feast your eyes on the magic of a new power,
A golden city with candles afloat,
Sand haired women with velvet dresses
Watch you from across the street,
You're a stranger among them,
Prepare your eyes for the fall of life,
They hold a banquet
To celebrate the meeting of the wolf and man,
It starts to pour as they touch.
Unanswered prayers hum in the air,
Suspended on the strings of doubt,
They have been returned to the sender.
Across the firepit,
Six sick savages mock the fiddler,
The music stops, words are exchanged,
And there's blood.
Six shades of red fluid,
Creeping slowly to fuel the fire that stares.
I've had enough.
I retire to my tent and someone's waiting,
I am the eagle king,
Her red hair paints the sheets red,
My thoughts go back to the six shades
I witnessed moments ago.
There's a murderer on the loose,
I didn't ask for this.
Set off into the night
Towards the temples of the East,
I may find my peace,
In a little corner of the marble city,
Bow down to the idols like sheep in the crowd,
The blade comes swiftly,
I felt no pain.
The sacrifice has been made,
There's no more waiting now,
You'll have your answer in the mail tomorrow.

Dearest Darling,

The lights are awake, Love. Each one dancing around the sky, falling, burning,
Dancing in the firepit.

For you, the lights are awake, My Love. Chanting with their high pitched hum. Using rays of light to strum harpchord lullabies. And they do it for you.

They do it for you because I sent them, I wanted to see a beauty so fitting yours. I wanted to tell the world through impossible means that Angels don't fall, they are born.

And I wonder...

Had you fall'n, I'd have been there. Within moments of hearing Hell try to breath you through the dirt, I'd have been there. Reaching for your immortal soul, to save and cherish.

And in the hours spent wrapped up in each other, I'd have loved an Angel. I'd have seen the wings and how they glide, I'd have found myself understand how one could be so lost.

Lost in love,
Lost in mind.

Dearest Darling,

My heart races daily, when I see you again. My fingers find a pen and write to you, to tell you of all the ways you ravish me. How you conquer me, how I'm lost to you because I've not given my heart to wandering women...its been given to my Goddess. My Lover in the clouds who shades me from the sun.
I write words for you with the stars, that if you ever go back home,
You may use them as guides.

And when you've made your home again, up in the embrace of a cloud with my touch.

I hope you find yourself reading them,
Those starlight sonatas I've composed for you.
I hope you find yourself remembering me, My Immortal Beloved.

I am from my mama's toes,
as my dad
walked out the back screen door day after day,
its rusted hinge screeching.
A reminder of the torrential rain of argument
falling on my little head

I am from pine trees
of sap and sticky sweet
and the seed ticks. Climbing to the top
checking your neighbor for where they’re hiding later
I am from a southerly wind blowing
the smells of an unkempt garden as flowers grow tall
and strong, while families fall apart like the suffocating weeds next to the roses

I am from the strong arms of 5 different oaks
holding me up like my father was supposed to
the branches of those who tried to fill
the pothole covered road
in my heart, but never could.

I am from my brother’s teachings,
and long walks in a warm rain
always ending too fast.
The sword fights with a long haired bohemian
who stole my heart in a flash of lighting
that I took back with a parrying blow

Smoked filled rooms
as I pretend to be someone else,
and learned of life in a binary universe
trippin on my spear as I fight through life

Forbidden to get dull
Less I lose the fight
My brother’s disappointment; ringing in my ears

I’m from the struggle of believing
in not believing.
My life, proving to be the site of one’s parents,
setting out Christmas
as they realize Santa isn’t real

I’m from a humble beginning
and an arrogant pride
that has given me freedom
to go where those haven’t dreamed

I am from the life I have chosen
to make for myself
I am from Punnet squares
in the back of class
sitting next to a friend

Wanting to know what my kids look like
ff they’ll be as good as I hope
like my mama dreams

I’m from rain on a leaky tin roof
putting me to sleep
making false peace

I am from the water
that rushes through my veins
as I break through the walls
and join in another world, of fish and muddy water

I am from escapes to Neverland
in the moments were I remember
I’m a kid and you’re a kid
and I laugh because I don’t always have to grow up

From my mom’s lemon pie
I hail
like the sugary sweet stickiness
and the ****
pucker you lips boys
lemon.
and the fried chicken

From a stove that hasn’t seen
the fanciest meats
but left us with a five star feast
at my parents hands

I miss when I came from
a smoke filled house
detectors going off
fat back and grilled cheese
burning in the pan.

I like to think
I am from a world
and all I learn
all that made me grow

I am from distinct beginnings
as my life separated
but I have but one
means to an end

I am from a fire place
and screaming wood beetles
as we pressed their backs
but that’s a happier time
that I know I’m from
but can’t remember
I was too young

Now I am from a firepit
Tall
as our conversations
our father singing drunken tales
too beautiful to believe
to fantastical to forget
sparks flying at each crakle
like fairies of fire
cascading in the air

But also from his wrath
the anger
nights spent in a room crying
wishing I could leave
clinging on only because I had yet to learn
I didn’t need him.

So I came from silence
between me and him
longer than forever
louder than the Nazgual
screeching out at us through the TV
a movie my father and I shared, so we could pretend a little longer.

I am from sneaking out a window
not to leave
but return
to when me and you got along
the asphalt
raking out hands
while we climbed to the top
that frightfully tall roof.

the stars leaning in to catching our fall.
the forbidden bottle passed between us.
the world looking like a nicer place
until we crawled back in the doors of reality

From the tear, resting on the edge of these words,
as I recalled your laugh
the real one
the music of it.
cried because I have not yet heard it
someone stole it from your soul.

Maybe freedom can bring it back,
or only further burry it
were the mad men buried it.

I was taught to live
as though not else mattered
the autonomy offering freedom
but still cling to what we had, for however long
our childhood
not as great.
grown up too fast.

Queen Mab holds my origins too
as does Fantasia
and Disney.

Eargon and Sapheria
swords of blue flame
holding my attention
locked away in my mind
as I watched their adventures
and others go by.

A House of Leaves
containing confuzzeld wonderment.
my brother making me challenge
what literary told me was possible
enjoying the complexity
and escape

I am from the Moulin Rouge
the green fairy of absinthe
with same
long haired bohemian
sitting next me, holding my hand

I came from a Secret History
bunny, laying flat in the snow
Dionysus holding the blame
the Greek world with bigger secrets
6 people of a strained friendship

I am from a radio
and an Ipod
the CD player and TV
music being my soul

Ambient, Pop, Grunge
House, Rock, Jazz, Classical
Blue Grass, Country, Electronica
A multitude of noise, dying to a lullaby

Headphones
soft n’ squishy
pressed tight to the drum
drown out the world I beg
they comply
my fingers moving along the click wheel
for a new assault
cilia fibers dying off
you know the world I am from
we shared it often times
and yet you are shut out
the world of 2 sisters
roads walked together.
but I am not from you side of the street.

I am from a dirt road
made long ago
that you will sometimes wonder on to.
but run back
to the smooth and familiar
Pavement.

The blaze in eyes while stories trade
sings deep rhythms in sand
vibrating into dunes.
Build,
building like pyramids
the cries of slaves pushing boulders
tap toes in hesitant syncopation.

A voice mumbles freedom,
while the Battle Hymn hums
across the backs of necks.
Kisses hiss like water pops
as sparks ascend into stars.
Blue Ribbons are ambivalent
to the sober back of the mind
as words take a decidedly
winning turn towards life.
Alive like fireworks, words
hiss in water pops
as logs and laws disband
themselves into our firepit.

back when summertime
sadness was hip.
beating hearts felt like butterflies
trapped in a plastic water
bottle trying their hardest
to get out and bodies of water
that were frighteningly black but as clear as
broken glass and
worn down cowboy boots
and perfectly fragmented
scarlet and burnt orange
canyons
and crushed
beer cans by the firepit
and isolation and
inescapable infatuation.
the world was so beautiful and
almost ethereal but it wasn't
familiar. like it had been
taken apart and put back
together differently than before.

-*z. vega

In the sand,
We met each other,
And names exchanged between friends
Turned into faces with personalities,
Characteristics, and ambitions.
In the sand,
We played together,
Building homes out of sand,
Pouring our heart and soul
Into the project,
And each other.
In the sand,
We walked together,
Side by side, hand in hand.
Bright sunsets become a backdrop to
Meaningful talks, important words,
And shared smiles.
In the sand,
We partied together,
The firepit blazing under the stars,
Music blaring and friends dancing,
Their forms basking in the fire’s glow.
In the sand,
We argued,
And harsh words were hurled,
Not unlike the terrible stinging sensation
Sand creates when trapped in your eye.
In the sand,
We parted ways,
Under the same sunset backdrop,
And I watched your footprints
Fade away.
In the sand,
I lay there lonely,
Babies crying and mothers yelling
All around me, with me trying to
Fathom the reasons why you left me.
In the sand,
Like a loyal leatherback sea turtle,
We came back to our beach, and
With tears in your eyes and
Sand in your hair, you apologized.
In the sand,
You apologized for your selfishness,
The way you jumped to conclusions,
And you confessed that you had never,
Ever forgotten me and our beach.
A year later, in the sand,
You went down on one knee,
And after saying yes, I thanked God above
That I had fallen in love with you
In the sand.

The sun's setting,
though it may leave you darkening,
is the start of the burning
far under your soles.

The browning now crinkling of
Summer's endlesseeming greening
is but the start of Springtime's
asylum in Xylem.
Phloem's sweet ware will
flow in 'em somewhere
down the line.
It’s pithy, I know
but life is born in death.
And though, come Fall,
trees seem seemingly sapped,
there's an inspiration transpiring.


The firepit's cooling
it's embers cast only shadows
and shades of memories of warmth
and story
and light...
None gather round, the gloomy.

The dormant circle
an ashen reduction
of oak and of fir
but its blackdust when wetted
(yes, ink!)
and dipped in by brush
will one day,
with luck,
be the source of a poet's
enlightening words.

The monarchs have gone -
a silent orange rustle
and, all at once,
the milkweeds go dry;
the once-green
stalks stand stock still,
Rods of Asclepias whose
seedlings are ever
the earliest snows.

Leaving home:
wherever the Earthbreaths may
take them -
bleak, brokenhearted,
hope in a coma...
How unlike the joy of the
flutterbys whose time now
has fluttered by, a chorus
as uttered by
the ungiven hope
who, though unasked,
has wandered the winds
to bring its daughters
(each healing, each hopeful)
a deathgiven panacea
to lands now in their
own limited unlimited Spring.



And you!  I know
your (sic) fiercely pretending
not to be crying.
Hell, to never've cried.
I know your lifework is
'manly' (your words) or
some other idiocy (my words)
and unbroken.  Hell, unbent.

But think on this:
if she's gone far enough,
far enough along,
far enough away;
enough time gone by
since you broke into One
('broke in two' is NOT how it feels),
if enough not enough Her
has passed,
then she's also
more than halfway back
to you,
to Whole.

Nothing can go,
nothing is lost
for there is no
'away' within this Here.
No one now, either
at a loss -
for the knowing
is nigh.
Even the knowing
cannot be going
for long 'fore returning;
the yearning is turning
from far-off to nearby.



The Sky lives as well
in every dark puddle.
Its blues, now on Earth
where all even All is at Home.

my daughter is almost 5
and my son is nearly 2
I could simply say they're one and four
but when the number's higher it sounds a little better
they're less babies and more childlike
you know, bigger and more wise
I'm more wise

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
they're in our yard with twig berrets
and mud stained smiles posing for a postcard to make the hose drinking generation proud.
he straddles the ground, chest bare like he's Tarzan and howls at the blue sky
challenging the sun

I look at him like he's made of stone
she's a daisy pedal I crush in my hand and compress into a diamond
the toxins dripping from the curling edges of my lips burn the dirt from her face
the shine of the light washes out the blood on my knuckles.
a ring on my finger and my hands look clean

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
their muddy fingers comb their feral hair
and their green feet clip the grass till they find jagged rocks
they weep over skinned kneecaps and with one arm I pull her close
with the other I slug his shoulder, "buck up kiddo, you'll be alright"
I hold a stone in each hand, and call one a precious gem while I build my house out of the other

my skin has washed against those stones since they were none and none
built into the houses of a thousand graveyards I've watched daisies pile over golden sarcophaguses
watched them wilt at the bottom of alters built on stone
I won't carve epitaphs into these hearts I hold

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
we drag fallen branches to our firepit and dance to music next to the flames
like weightless stone his strength surges to his tippytoes
she powders his nose with ash and pretends she's a cheetah
her game isn't to **** she just wants to chase
princes have their feet welded to pedestals and the sport's no fun for her

my children aren't rocks, they're stardust
I won't make kings or queens I've no providence  over their future
so I'll **** the venom from the sky and watch them walk back to the stars
I may not be a champion but I'll be their father

Just sitting there last night by the fire watching the sunset over the trees
Another pleasant evening,  a cool breeze, peaceful.  Or was it?
A few dark clouds overhead,  they'll come to nothing
But then....Patter patter patter down came the rain
So what, I've experienced worse
So into my shelter snug and warm, a little rain will cause no harm
But then came the wind, not just any wind but a tearing screaming gale blasting the rain with the force of a bullet.  Tearing at the skin, numbing the flesh
My firepit now a pool of ***** grey sludge,  cooking kit scattered far and wide
OK, drop the sides so I'm watertight,  one last warming scotch then I'm in for the night
Close my ears to that wild banshee screaming out there in the dark
0545am
The wind has lessened but still the rain is pouring down,  a muddy swamp where was once hard ground
The gentle stream where I keep my beers cold now a raging torrent of ***** brown water
(I never lost my beers though)
I have a routine I rarely miss, a hot mug of tea after taking a ****
And I won't be beaten by a small summer storm
So into a dry bag where I keep some stuff,  a few bits of wood and tumble dryer fluff
Between the roots of a tree a fire soon takes hold, on goes a *** and soon steam arose
On goes a pan with some bacon and beans

And then, out came the sun

To be caught in a storm like that isn't much fun but it's all part of the wild camping game

Slip like a
Fish through my grasp
And I will
Tear out my hair
Strand by paper thin
Lock
Until I am left eating
Raw magnetic tape
And finding new awe
In the constellations
Beneath the firepit
I will
Button my jacket
While tasting the cool, bitter
Smoke of memories
Whanging out of my head
As I do my best to
Keep from tearing a hole in my cabin
And fleeing out into the
Bitter crisp night.
Know that
It is not for myself
That I commiserate.
You and I,
We were lost at sea too long past
Before the ashen cement had dried.
The prolonged lingering of the heart
You’ve already forgotten.
-2019

i just jumped into the firepit
to relieve the burns cascading of your shoulders
and you strutted off, with terrible excuses,
maybe searching for water.
but you left me there to swelter:
you forgot to take my hand and
pull me out of the flickering
hell i was thrown into.
even though i only jumped 'cause you where there.

At the beach house
you don’t need much
an old mossy table
the boards
collaged in pine needles
a firepit
domed by scorched
trees huddling
stitched together
as one quilted canopy
hoping for wisdom below
A snappy fire
fanning air
that
grows crisp
and birds
the birds
oh the birds
their songs above
always their songs
around.

Time is ticking,
Hearts expire,
As I mourn the loss of my desire,

I dread the pain,
As it consumes me,
Into this endless black hole of fury,

Feel the wrath,
Between my heart and wits,
As they clash like demons,
From the lack of passion,
In my firepit.

Poe sits like meat locker Tummo,

in a flake's firepit--giving off snow's incense.

with his vest unbuttoned, wearing a t shirt

of Antarctica's: True South flag.

his elegantly racked face thinking of the seven

archangels, how all their names end with an: l.

necessitating the tongue to reach the mouth's roof.

his: "Philosophy of Composition" ceases dissecting:

"The Raven"--evermore (True North) is the same as

nevermore (True South).

I danced to the music
In the moonlit sky
the fireflies danced with me
as the night drew nigh
the air was fresh and cool
the firepit was burning logs for fuel
the bats were flying across the garden
the owls screeching I have to pardon
the feeling was of freedom
in the beautiful garden of Eden!

like him to suffer,
ride a colliding train
without a buffer.
I'd like him to roast

as a pig
over a firepit,
revolving til charred,
pierced with a spit. I'd like

his bed as a wooden rack. And
his limbs pulled tight with
a rope till they detach. Whip
his back like whites of

an egg till he screams
and he begs. Pull his eyes
out of the sockets. Dump scorpions
in both his shirt pockets. And even so

after all of this
it doesn’t come close
to all that he did.