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M Eastman Aug 2015
Cup your palms around
that candle dear lazy
Spells to cast to the wombs
keep our ghosts outside
peering into tent flaps
yellowing irises and
stamens strangely swaying
but nonsense
Butte no
out there
they stalk you dear lazy
Kiva Beth Oct 2017
Once it started opening up,
Like a wound, the pearl sheen of skin deepening into a red,
As rare as the perfect rose,
And just as treasured.

Bones dense around my heart,
And lock themselves in place,
Stifling the voice, two beats -
The third one silent.

The fourth,
The fifth,
The third.

You are my arms outreached but selfish,
Hands open but stiff,
Palms red.
Our worlds keep spinning; around and around!
It's constantly spinning around!

When I was a child, I’d open my mouth and bite the moon,
When I was a boy, I’d lay my head within the stars,
And when I grew old, there was no place like home,
When I died, flowers grew from the palms of my hands.

When I was a star I sailed for a boy with a dream,
When I was a moon a child bit a chunk out of me,
And when I grew old, there was no place like home,
When I died, flowers grew from the palms of my hands.

Our worlds keep spinning; around and around!
It's constantly spinning around!
The cycle of life!
Moon Fire*      

de Luna climbs up
majestic fir brows
one rung at a time

to feel the shiver
of winter breeze
tickle higher
                         than treetops reach
.                                                          ­­                                            
where moonbeams
know the meaning
the shadows cast
upon the open palms
of nature’s hands

her halo encircles
a shapeless luster
beyond        
the faint whispers
in northern skies

wishing on
the nearest stars,
set ablaze
a smoldering heart
grown cold

as ...

the last winter moon
full and bright



wild is the wind © 2.22.2016
Fuego de Luna ~ Moon Fire
is a moment framed,
looking out my bedroom window
into the forest,
the final full moon rise
of winter
mesmerizing with a dreamful verve
percolating mercilessly within insomnia
He is infallible,
A Caesarean man,
Reading the palms of fate in Christlike fashion.

The perfect product of devolution,
The highest of the higher men,
Tossing wrenches into the system of collapse.

He justifies humanity and its suffering,
With his sheer existence.

The Overman is an automaton,
A dynamo for suicide.
The Overman is a god,
Drip-feeding divine bile into our IV bag.
Still editing bits of it.
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