Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

In hindsight, this too
was beautiful.

I close the door of the bathroom cabinet, revealing the figure standing in front of it. I tilt my head back, bring my hand up to my mouth, swallow, and feel the slightly farmiliar sensation of the little pill sliding down my throat. Anything that used to be normal is only slightly farmiliar now, an effect of these little pills.
I look up into the ghost in the mirror, the one that slightly resembles my own face. I can barely pick out the individual features, but I'm pretty sure that's me. I bring my hand back up to my face, this time to pull up my cheeks in something that somewhat looked like a smile. Yep, that's me all right. The hand moved to the left, and grabbed my ear, tugging at it. Slowly, it made its way across my whole face, surveying all my features, feeling everything. I'm still here. Wish I wasn't.
I sigh and continue staring at this ghost of a person. She looks tired, and *****. Her dark brown hair ******* in a messy, greasy bun on top of her head. Her once bright green eyes are now a dull brown. Her once flushed cheeks, now completely pale and lifeless, still bear the scars of the crash.
I sigh once more and turn around, almost losing my balance.
I start toward my room, remembering I have to do something today. Not school, nor work, nor anything else in particular. Well, of course there is a reason, but thinking of that reason makes everything clear and painful, so lets just keep things hazy and safe.
I pull my once too small jeans on, which are now extremely baggy on my scarred legs. I try to steady my shaky hands as I attempt the eyeliner, but give up, and remove the waterproof makeup. It's not like he will care, he can't see my face anymore.
A sudden stab of pain envelops within my chest as everything suddenly becomes clear and I can see his face, his beautiful face, laughing. I blackout and end up on the floor.
When my eyes open, they are greeted with the concerned eyes of my sister-in-law. She's holding my face, trying to wake me up. "Woah there, woah. Are you okay?"
I sit there thinking of what just happened and what she said. It takes me a moment, but I reply, "As okay as I ever am."
She rolls her eyes and sighs. "C'mon, get up. We have to do something today."
Another stab of pain as I remember where we're going today and what we're doing. I ***** on her as the pain overcomes me once more, this time not blacking out. Instead the images, the very ones I have countless nightmares about, flit across my mind. Every one bearing pain, bearing a very specific pain. I start to scream and convulse, as I claw the arms of my brother's wife.
My brother comes in to pull me off of her and put me onto my bed, as I continue screaming. I can very clearly feel the very farmiliar pain in the middle of my chest. It's as if 10, no. It's as if a 100, a 1000 knives are being shoved in, turning, breaking bones, slicing organs. And then it feels as if someone is spitting salted lemon juice into my wounds, stinging.
It's all in my head though. Everything I'm feeling is all in my head. And that's the problem right there. Why couldn't I have just died in the crash, why can't I just be gone already.
I blackout again. And when I wake up, both my brother and my sister-in-law are standing there, watching over me. I see that my sister-in-law has changed clothes. Their troubled faces brighten up a little as they watch my eyes open. Unsurprised. This happens every time we plan to go to the hospital to visit him in the ICU. It's happened before, many times, so they know what to do and how to calm me back down.
They help me up from my bed and out into the living room, where there is a tray of fried eggs and bacon sitting on the coffee table. Probably for me.
I disregard it and instead walk to the kitchen to grab the *****.
My sister-in-law was right there to stop me. "No no no, not this early. Besides," she says as she takes the bottle from my shaking hands, "you already took your medication."
I begin to protest, and quit, knowing that it was no use.
Asides from the ***** and my medication, they have baby-proofed the whole house because of me. All knives are locked up somewhere in the garage, any tool that could be used against myself gone. No rope, shoelaces, small appliances, or other things that I may use to **** myself. The ***** was out because they confiscated it from my room. I had shoplifted the liquor the other day, and was trying to start a collection so that I may drink several bottles of alcohol at once and overdose. Not too smart, they search my room all the time. I'm too drugged to even care. And my medication tastes too nasty to overdose on, asides from being nearly impossible to OD from.

In the car on the way to St. Rosemary's hospital, we stop at a florist to get some 'Get Well Soon' stuff. My brother gave me some stronger medication, as he always does whenever we go to the hospital, and it makes thinking better. I'm able to think about what happened, but it makes the images in my head seem like they're from a movie, rather than my own eyes. I'm able to think about the man who lays there in the ICU, day in day out. That man I was once in love with. No, I still love him. And he loved me too. Loved.
I'm brought back to reality by my brother.
"What colour do you want to give him today?"
I don't know why he asks. I always say the same. "Green. His favorite colour."
My brother sighed. "I think he has enough green. But oh well, it's your choice..."
I love my brother very very much. I'm so grateful that he puts up with me. It's kind of a funny thing, when we were much younger and he was a ***** up, I could've sworn that he would have to end up living with me when we were older. Ironically, I ended up having to live with him. Well, 'living with him' isn't what it is. It's more like 'babysitting' or 'mom didnt want her in a mental hospital.' Like I had said before, I'm too drugged to care.

We also stop by SubWay just before we get to the hospital. I get the usual, a footlong ham and Swiss, with three chocolate chip cookies and a large Dr. Pepper. It's not for me, of course. I never eat anymore. This food is for him, if he wakes up. Because if he wakes up while I'm there, I want the satisfaction of being there with his favorite food. I do this every time. It's been a very long time since my brother or his wife has complained, wasting food and such. I don't care whether or not they're mad I waste stuff. I want this, no. I need this, for my fiancé.

Hospitals used to always scare me. As a child, I never had a reason to go to the hospital, except for my mother or grandmother, and even then I never went. I just knew people died there sometimes. I used to be so afraid of death. Now I'm wishing for it daily.
We head up to the ICU. He has his own room to himself, but he wouldn't care whether or not he had other people in there. All the people here know me, since we come around so often. They always look at me with extremely sympathetic looks, and then whisper about me to the people who they're around.
"Poor woman... Was in a terrible car crash... See those scars?... Just about to get married... **** near lost her life..."
They think I don't hear them but I do. It's a complete blessing for this medication, and that it makes me not care anymore, but sometimes I wish I could care. I wish I could turn around to them and tell them to shut the **** up thank you very much. I just literally do not care anymore.
We get to his room. The nurse comes out with the same sympathetic look as the rest of them.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to remember the last time I heard his voice, seen his eyes, felt his smile, heard him singing, the last time he told me he loved me...
And then the whole scene of when my life basically ended flashed across my mind, like a movie.

We were in the car, driving, listening to the iPod that was hooked up, singing along with whoever the hell was on. It was the middle of April. Nice weather. It was the perfect day.
We were on the way to this favorite place of mine, a 'special date' he had called it. At the time I had no idea what he was going to do.
We went into the place, a rollerskating rink. We got our skates and went into the rink to skate around. The DJ called out a special song for a special someone. As we danced and skated to the song, which was 'our song', the song we used to sing to eachother all the time, when a spotlight shined on him and he stopped what he was doing.
"You know that I love you," he said. "And you know that I want to be with you for the rest of our lives." He got down on one knee. "Will you make me the happiest man alive, and marry me?"
I started to cry. I said yes, if course. It was the happiest moment of my life.

When we were finished with the date, we were driving back home. We were seated very close, holding onto eachother.
We stopped at a stop sign, and I wanted a kiss. So I turned my head toward his, and we kissed. When I opened my eyes, we were in the middle of the intersection, and a car was coming our way from the left. It's headlights were shining in my eyes, and it was too close, going too fast. Right before the hit, I looked at it, knew the danger, and screamed my fiancé's name. He looked into my eyes in alarm, and that was when it hit. The other car smashed right into us, t-boning us on the drivers side, while my husband-to-be was driving. That moment felt like an eternity. We were flown around, and we hit some **** I don't even remember.
The next thing I remember was the sirens. The ambulances came and took us away from the wreckage. He was hurt severely, put into a coma. Me, I had some bad injuries, but not as bad as his. We were rushed to the hospital, and he was flown by helicopter to a bigger hospital that dealt with more serious injuries. Within two days he was considered brain dead.

And now, here I am, walking on this earth, while the love of my life just lays there, brain dead. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to make it so I have to walk around, wondering whether he will ever wake up. The doctors always say that it's been too long, or that there's no hope now, or that we need to pull the plug. But every time they tell me that, I flip out. I flip out so bad they have to basically tranquilize me and send me back to the mental hospital. It's horrible. I just wish I could die, and that they would finally pull the plug after my death, so that we can both be together, wherever we go when we are finished with this life...

And the picture that always haunts me? The one of his eyes, in alarm, when I screamed his name. That picture is what haunts me day and night. It's what my nightmares are composed of. Every. Single. One.

I think all of this over for about a minute before we walk in. No one urges me to go in faster, they all know what I'm doing. They all know that I'm reliving the moment that pretty much took him away.
I open my eyes, ready to see him at last. I take small, careful steps into the hospital room, watching the floor. I finally looked up to see him lying, like usual, in his bed.

...At least, that what I was expecting.

Instead, he was sitting up, eyes wide, waiting for my reaction to see him awake.

And that was when I fainted.

I was sitting at a traffic light
and I saw this huge rosemary bush
in bloom
and the lilac poked through
whatever tender golden blossom
lie next to it

and it made me think of you
and your sweetness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.

She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch

Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,

Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.

Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him

She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,

I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories

Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.

My social life is
basically filled with
cats.

A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.

A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.

A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.

A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.

I will answer you truthfully.

Toxic people fill my mind
it' s all too much to breathe
their noiseless talking fills the air
and pollutes all that i see.
I planted rosemary in my mind
to replenish and release,
weeds came around and choked them out
along with positivity
I am small in my mind,
so much smaller than before
I tried to close my house from them
but they broke down my door.
The world is full of beauty, I think
I read it in a book
But voices whisper I am wrong,
Maybe I have been wrong all along.
Is goodness really all within,
And if so can it be taken?
I don’t want them to take my soul,
My heart is there’s for breaking.

All my herbs have lost their taste,
and all my spices are now sand.
My rosemary is still fresh.
I've always hated rosemary,
it tastes like garbage.
So the question is... do I put it on my meal?
Is it better to have a blandness in my food,
leaving me unsatisfied?
Or put on the grossly distinguishable flavor of rosemary,
to add variety, for the sake of difference?

flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl

bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck

raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare

starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang

Dearest Ophelia:
Daughter of the murdered man
Sister of the murdered man
Lover the man who murdered your men
This is an ode to your fictitious life

Ophelia, my love, you are divine
Oceanic and loving, you are the blessed petals
Of a plucked flower in hopes of a fortune

Irrational, eccentric,
Your whims
Become the whims of others

The ickle darling
Who needs help most
Dying a death so jarring

Sinking, sinking, thinking
Into the murky depths unknown
By the Queen’s words not shown

By rue,
By rosemary,
By fennel,
By *****,
By columbine,

By regret,
By remembrance,
By foolishness, flattery, and adultery,
By love,
By faith and hope

Her judgement most bitter-hearted
Her judgement most secretive and dry
Her judgement most sweet-scented

Lost to a fit of laughter
By the maiden’s wit
Her act comes to a close
With mermaid-like prose

Have you forgotten that the scent of rosemary helps you to remember the things you forgot to remember?

People wobbling in the heat haze like a real time hall of mirrors
Street performers sing & flamenco & mime
The snap of digital cameras & excited chatter outside the cathedral
Sangria cold & fruity as it slides down easily
The tram glides past the beggars & hawkers
Gypsies’ curses in coarse andalucian as rosemary favours are repelled
Excited Asians watching every move Large Americans loudly exclaiming their delight as the light fades into dusk
Now the Feria comes alive all lights & ferris wheels & music so much music
Men on horseback women ride sidesaddle all in traditional dress
A throwback to a time before bailouts & austerity
Sing & Dance & Eat & laugh & joke
As dusk becomes evening the ottoman turrets light up
The cooler night air seems to remove inhibitions as people from different worlds celebrate humanity with cheers & smiles
Muchos Gracias & Bueno & Buena Noches  in various accents fill the night as the spell is broken

yesterday may have been my birthday.

you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
an abacus to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, unnecessary explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
a priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
reasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry, the heart
eccentric~centric: tire shop patched,
yom kippur white resurrected this day,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know,
Hey Michelangelo!
the Renaissance come
and gone,
nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries, some blackbirds,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

yet, but,
always one thought recycles:

**what if the poetry ceases,
how will I breathe?

Scarlet dancing poppies
ruffled skirts flung high
pansies and geraniums
nod to an August sky
foxglove mint and rosemary
move with the wind and sway
a summer garden party
and a fragrant cabaret

Talk to me like rosemary and oil,
Like the sour with the sweet,
The heat of the noodle stew,
The first sip of a red wine,
The juicy steak with thyme
And shiitake
Look at me with eyes as gravy
And talk to me like honey
That drips like melting ice,
Like fennel and onions,
And biscuits with peaches
Talk to me like umami risotto,
With leeks
Like viola lemonade
And cinnamon cherry pie
With lime
Sip me like your creamy earl grey
And talk to me like toast and egg,
Like bergamot marmalade
Talk to me this way

You make promiscuous promises
to your aching body
tell her she’ll feast next week
if she lets you live to see the sea
you promise her ripe *******
sticky fruit
the dripping moments of honey
you tell her to ignore the tricks of his fingers
how they pull away
the tenders parts of her
you remind her she's as soft as the madrona tree
that she’s the most pungent smell of rosemary
the strength it takes for her
to live
shifts the alignments of the planets
causes disarray in each star sign
as she dips her toes
stretches her bones

he simply orbits
you remind her
she holds the resilience of each breathing forest
and though he makes his offerings
while looking for something sweeter
she is monumental in the way the world needs her.

Oh, to gently enter the water’s embrace,
to be weighed down by
something other than my grief.
The currents look strong, the water rushing
and swirling, voracious in its appetite.
One by one, I drop the flowers into the water,
their petals leave the stems,
they are so bright and pretty against the clear blue swirling currents.
I am on the branch of a tree, gazing down after them,
my ***** blonde hair in my eyes.
Slowly, I prize my fingers off the branch,
and swing my legs over one side.
I jump.
The water is chilling, exhilarating.
I have never felt so alive.
My white dress gathers tightly around my ankles
and I can’t kick them free,
so I lean back, gazing at the green canopy above me,
looking at the bright glow of the flowers
swirling about my head.
Rosemary for remembrance,
pansies, rue and columbine,
daisies, sweet and innocent, like how I used to be.
The water rushes over my head;
I meet my watery grave; I think no more.

A part of me lives miles and minutes and moments away
in an indefinite, dreamy place where clocks are not my enemy
and I associate the word “distance" with travel, not longing
My heart has sailed across the Atlantic,
moved eagerly through the Indian Ocean,
navigated using an atlas inked with butterflies
and stars that gleam ardently
(just as your rosemary eyes do,
every once in a blue moon,
when you’re able to sew together
the disarrayed thoughts
that dwell in your messy head)

You are so, so far away

However, if I avoid calendars and geography,
it feels like you’re right here beside me

In the afternoon, when the sun shines
through my bedroom window
and paints the world map on my wall with light,
I shut my eyelids and run my thumb along the string
that stretches across the parchment,
connecting me to you

I pretend that when I open my eyes,
you will be here
and that my aching fingers
that are so desperately
grasping the paper
will be intertwined
with yours

Sweet Rosemary has never really been in love
She’s a beautiful girl and she’s always searching for someone
But in her loneliest of times she gave herself away
To a boy that never deserved to touch her
Because he never thought that much of her
And she deserves so much better
Now she feels more regret than ever

Pretty Lily is caught between her own feelings
Between the perfect man and her old sweetheart
But he broke her heart years ago
The memory of him is enticing
And the other one is leaving soon
And she doesn’t know what to do
She’s more confused than ever

Gabriel likes Lily but she has no idea
As he watches her slip further away from him
And he’s losing hope of ever being loved again
And we have this in common
As we feel our chances slipping from our fingers
We are closer than ever

And Angel loves a boy across the ocean
The boy broke his heart and told him it would never work
But he never stops calling and leaving messages
He just keeps breaking his sweet little heart
And I tell him if it’s really love then distance shouldn’t matter
And he misses him more than ever

And I loved the boy who left me for so long
Until I met a new one and I thought I was saved
But I was so afraid of showing how I felt
That I let it fall to pieces before it ever got off the ground
And now I’m more afraid than ever

I’m so used to being treated like I’m nothing
That when I finally see how good it could be I’m surpised
And I realize how it should be
Between a man and a woman
I deserved so much better than he ever gave me
And I should be happy that he doesn’t want me
But I just feel more alone than ever.

orange suited bodies
mummified in woolen scarves
flasked rage at lava Fahrenheit
knuckles too cold to pop
cahoones swallowed
coiled animosity

i miss that amorous summer kiss
stellar guffaw
rigid stiletto
exuding confidence in that radiant walk
proudly wearing her scars
a definite rosemary
her twigs as a symbol of love and constancy
her incense in respect to the goner

And if, my friend, you'd have it end,
  There's naught to hear or tell.
But need you try to black my eye
  In wishing me farewell.

Though I admit an edged wit
  In woe is warranted,
May I be frank? . . . Such words as "--"
  Are better left unsaid.

There's rosemary for you and me;
  But is it usual, dear,
To hire a man, and fill a van
  By way of souvenir?

It was evening in spring,
And the tides of waves --
With orbits of the silent moon,
Wax and pale, craves
Of a queen irradiate bright,
'Mid stars as Nubians ,
Reign Herself with Utopians
Beaming with light.
For awhile, I glance,
(Fair mystic chance)
Fair- so fair to me-
She flown, o'er heaven,
As holier rosemary
Guided by a fairy
Left be poison airy-
I reached toward thee:
Queen of evenstars-
For love be even,
As an enamored rose
I once leapt before-
Before- when flame grows
Into a distant fire,
Ablaze aspire
Where the cord
Of a profound lord-
Twist the knife
Against my life
Afar- far-far-far-
To that which Beauty's scar
Is worship- in a evenstar.

we lay in a bed of rosemary and thyme
for the seven days god took to create the world
Adam named all of the animals
while Eve ate the forbidden fruit
I chase serpents and tear rabbits with my teeth
all in the sake of sweet and dripping meat
oh sinners will sin
oh sinners will sin
and while the saints preach
I will achieve all of the passion
all of the unwanted children in my dreams

Your pupils are tiny and starry,
lifting your eyes from that dark canyon
the dust sea

dying them brown, giving them
black skin that won't peel
under sunlight.

I understand moths surround you
but you are strong,
they only
fill your eyes like tears

attracted to the light
your nameless energy, where life touches

you
it just begins to trust.

Insomniac plants must squeeze
their eyelids at night
to build the crystal white structure of
you, hues shadows hold onto

saves, grows to, trusts
as a lullaby verse to become glued on.

We sprout from energy
bright and warm, float in a hot tea bath
chamomile up out of porcelain

rosemary and roses and honeydew
lit by candles,
we feel your energy and just believe.

oh the sun
blush
rosemary red
at the
crack of
dawn
i said

In her dark eyes thou canst see thine own mortality
And with her white arm in some imperiously indolent gesture,
Long fingers carelessly pointing -- rosemary, rosary,
Rose petals rotting on a Sunday -- Baudelaire would like her,
With her nightshade beauty and red lips in a frown.

"Fier et nonpareil," like some rue-flowering queen
And not even the dark red of the faded rose
Resembles the color of her voice, a color which can't be seen
Morbid and beautiful and indolently morose
Et son visage serait celui de Baudelaire ***** rêves...

Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires
Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades
Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong
And natural dread of man's last home, the grave,
Its frost and silence--they disposed around,
To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt
Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues
Of vegetable beauty.--There the yew,
Green even amid the snows of winter, told
Of immortality, and gracefully
The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;
And there the gadding woodbine crept about,
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands
That trembled as they placed her there, the rose
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke
Her graces, than the proudest monument.
There children set about their playmate's grave
The *****. On the infant's little bed,
Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
Emblem of early sweetness, early death,
Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames,
And maids that would not raise the reddened eye--
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy
Fled early,--silent lovers, who had given
All that they lived for to the arms of earth,
Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.

  The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep
Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone,
In his wide temple of the wilderness,
Brought not these simple customs of the heart
With them. It might be, while they laid their dead
By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,
And the fresh ****** soil poured forth strange flowers
About their graves; and the familiar shades
Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms,
And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand
Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites
Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,
And rarely in our borders may you meet
The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place,
Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide
The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves
And melancholy ranks of monuments
Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,
Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind
Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh,
Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,
In vain--they grow too near the dead. Yet here,
Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,
Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone,
The brier rose, and upon the broken turf
That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine
Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth
Her ruddy, pouting fruit. * * * *