We were warm in that sunlight
Love ran thick in succulent leaves
Unfolding when the day would fade

Moving in the sunlight as the shadows chased
Dusty gray green happiness
Even keeled gentle curves of feeling
Rosy blush edging our forevers
Blunted points of conversations

We can last long on the waters we keep
Though we separate as time goes by
Conjoined in a cluster at the base of our relationship

Our love is like the succulents
Long lasting,
Long lived

Here in the desert
it's been raining
on and off
            for days
making the succulents and cacti
glisten with wetness
their thick skin sparkles
and catches nature's ironic eye
flowers and plants shine
so much better in the half-grey
Here in the prehistoric depths
Of rocky whitewash and silt
             flash floods rush through
flushing out all guilt
         And inside
a raging storm commences
and I feel so blessed
to be a part of this celebration
my lungs expanding in my chest
I breathe in deep
that fresh purity of air
let it cleanse right through me
from my toes up to my hair
It rushes in my body
taking no prisoners in its force
flows through every vein
cleansing poisons in its course
its power flows into me
washing out this stubborn pain
Turning the confusion
                     into clarity again
From inside subconscious thoughts
           realization thunders
rinsing from my mind
                 the emotional strain
and replacing it with euphoric wonders
Come, my raging desert tempest
Bathe me
       penetrate me with wet
restore and purify
my being
take over and disinfect
let me feel my own strength
until it pours out from my cells
into the space inside my heart
where love and lust still dwell
My tears mingle with the sweet drops
                as I fling arms open to the sky
releasing strikes of lightening
for every word I cry
as I summon, pray for lightness
mixed with the sturdiness of earth
Let joy rise up and bubble
within my being
as rebirth

i stopped watering
     the succulents,

because even if i
     watered those **** plants,

they would die.

just stop dying,
     and drink,

******.

if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
                     of the miracle of
                           this Spring deluge
                                unfurling forth                
                            from deep within  
                        the crusty dermis
          of this sublunar territory:
          hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
          intermingling their hues
          of mauve and lilacs,
                              as well as the color of sky
                               blooms of the succulents
                    popping open
                    in celebratory dance
                                   in wild fuschia
                                sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
          hollyhocks of magenta,
           veils of bougainvellia, too
                    sweetpea clusters
             curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove

And I feel like a goddess
              of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
         I cup the buds of blooms,
                                      of nectar
to inseminate my dark
       allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
         the atoms
of  new
               start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit

you asked me to write a poem
about joy
a difficult request for someone
who has forgotten what it means
and at times
forgotten where to find it
I started thinking of life's tiny joys
warm coffee
soft cheese
mountain views
hot tub kisses
long hikes, hand in hand
running into a warm ocean
and I wondered if that was enough
if I could string together all
the tiny moments, end to end
if they would create something
quantifiable enough to be described
as joy?
or if my joy
like the wings of a raven or
jagged blocks of ice or
fields of succulents
would always be better viewed
at a safe distance and never touched but
you allowed me to see your joy and
for a moment I felt like it was tangible
you let me hold it with care
I will always be grateful
that you have shown me
what it looks like
I keep it near my heart now
by my closest memories
because your joy is my gift and
my joy
will always remain with you

Outside the miner's shack Joshua trees stand silent vigil,
expecting his imminent return, or perhaps his ghost.
Horn silver, weathered by rainwater from volcanic rock,
no longer strews fallow ground to lure the miner back.

In lieu, small succulents feed tortoise and jackrabbit,
replace the metal which only men could value.
Nevada gains a confluence of life in the exchange,
dry-lake flora and fauna bartered for chlorargyrite.

Barren mountains surround this desolation,
where nothing more than fungi lie in vapid dissipation
before the relentless punishment of the sun,
a lattice-work of valleys dissecting their *****.

I ventured here to purge my body of poisons,
exhale the vapors and biles of city living,
to rid the alien presence in my mitochondria,
and let it go the way of Silver State.

you and i are fretful, wary fish--
old souls. anxious beings.
sometimes i think that you and i are part of a whole--
the two fish tied together by the rope.

as the song says,

"i wanna ruin our friendship,
we should be lovers instead;
i don't know how to say this,
'cause you're really my dearest friend."

but honestly,
i crave you in the most innocent of ways.

if i could kiss you just once,
simply sleep next to you and be at peace,
that would be more than enough for me.

we made a pact -- at thirty we will get married
just because we can.
but it hurts --
i know it doesn't mean the same to you
as it does to me

i just want to marry you someday
live in a house near the Atlantic
and the rooms will be full of cacti and succulents
the scent of baked goods will waft out from the kitchen
where we will be battling the cats
for space on the table to let the macarons cool --
vanilla bean, rose raspberry, chocolate peppermint

some days, this is all i can think about
and i could never admit that to you

For Eric

Still as likely to call
you on your faulty reasoning

To add philosophical asides
to any conversation

To create something from
other things:  words,
succulents, driftwood,
found objects, and
arcane bits of wisdom

To dig up treasures where ever
and when ever possible

To delight in uniqueness of character
and a choice turn of phrase

To both insist and demur,
challenge and encourage,
to penetrate and repent
(on rare occasions)

To surprise with a soft word,
a kind gesture,
a wisp of sentiment,
and a steadfast dedication to
lasting friendship.

Permanence is an illusion--
he would argue--
But some things, like the
arrow of time, remain unchanged.

Swinging higher rising from green to a cloudy sky.
She would give up her feet in exchange for flight.
The day closes up shop, the doors locked, she finger paints
rain clouds in the windows, the light of midnight traffic slipping
by glimpses of golden and marmalade light.  In a slow blink she sips
black masala tea with cream and sugar with a flicker of  melancholy she imagines
the milky light polluted sky and the few stars stubbornly shimmering.

The palms of her hands burning  the back of her eyes sweating
strained visions of flowering deserts of hungry sunflowers and parched succulents
she feels the edges of depression creep around her waiting for the last sigh of joy.

Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.

A succulent can thrive
on care given once,
maybe twice, yearly.

I love them because
they can still capture
my attention even when
neglected.

Petals wrapt in fibers
and furs, spines daring
me to poke and ****.

I love them because
they are a lot like me.

Fun to look at.
A pain to hold.

In the land of the practical
There lived an ornamental
A desert rose.
A farmers wife
Planted her
To break up
The graveled nap
Of gray caliche
And from the time
She pushed her first shoot up
She knew she
Didn’t look like
The other plants.

The land could not
Be farmed
There was no oil
So the farmer and his wife
Moved On
Leaving the rose alone
Amongst the desert cabbage
And the other wild succulents.

At first she tried
To blend
Curl her velvety leaves
Into a cabbage
Fodder
For the desert fauna
But the animals avoided her
Because she looked odd.
They worried that she was poisonous
So she crawled back
Underground.

But still she longed
For light on her face
So she stuck another shoot up
Conserving all her energy
For her stems
She didn't want to frighten anyone
But her stems grew thick and woodsy
Like a thorny fig vine
And after a hiker
Cut his leg
She curled up
And crawled underground.

Years passed
Until she was as frozen
As the ground
Then one day
She sensed movement
Above her.
She pushed a shoot up
And standing above her
Smiling
Was a young woman
- There you are
The woman cried
- Why are you hiding away
My grandmother told me
All About you.
You were the one bright spot
Of color in her garden
She could smell your perfume
From her window
And it reminded her that
Beauty could survive
Even in such
A drab place.

And the rose blossomed.

And they are attractive little bunches
Holding themselves together with lightshows and
Hanging over stucco ledges
Until they are replaced
In the dead of night with nobody but the janitor's
Wrinkled gaze
Pruning and yanking
their dry roots
To replace with something new.

The Fibbonacci stories spiral downstairs like infinity
And a reflecting pool looks like the domed firmament of some great sistine

I could see for a moment in my upturned gut
The draw towards infinity that lies at the end of that hollowed mosque
And which holds me firm in trust

There are no stairs, oddly enough
Only a polished high speed elevator
With fancy buttons that light up
And bring us down to ground
Floors that once were above

I stared at my face in between
The metal doors and wondered
When the time would come
For me to be something more

Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.


Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.


Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.


A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.


Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.


The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.


Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009

people build
their homes

out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill

by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed

from the color of the walls
and state of the floor

right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap

and the way the words
come out of their mouths

i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap

tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out

and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast

the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway

with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives

yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window

your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night

and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter

*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side

Everything. Perception. Subjective.

Elephants plaster satellites, elven predators stalk eleven peeking succulents; everlasting parades storm earfulls-- please send

Help.

subway
ed sheeran, especially give me love, our ******* wedding song
black and white photos
england, you wanted to show me everywhere
6"2'
the fault in our stars
always
italian, why did you even feel the need to say ti amo
*****, you were drunk when you said it the second time
5.30am
scars on people's wrists, don't be silly, you said it was an accident
collar bones
tumblr
dreams, the good ones were mine, the bad ones were yours
voice recordings
11.11 wishes, the ones you promised you'd help make come true
the word ****
succulents, like on your windowsill
bastille and cars, you would always sing along in the passenger seat
postcards
airport and train station reunions
all those songs i played just for you on my guitar
my sister's birthday, why did you have to choose that date
you're perfect for me, you swore you weren't a liar
***
the anne frank house, where you were ******* texting me from
february 26th
melbourne's federation square
your name was in a movie and i started to cry

I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
                                               struggles to intubate a cat.  
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
                                                      practition­ers are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
                                                                ­     the sternum sore.  

Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.  
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.

Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
       after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.  

The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.  
The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.  
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.  
                                                        ­               The eleventh hour,
                                                                ­  isn’t that what it’s called?  

We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.  
We have to, but it won’t register.  
                                                     ­       After a loss, after a trauma,
                                                                ­   we are on autopilot.  
I think of my mother,
                                        six feet beneath frozen soil in
                                      a pink padded casket and think:
                                                                ­                             I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
                                                          ­                                   I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.  
Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.  
We don’t talk about it.  

We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.  
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)

I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.  
I couldn’t do these things.
                                                 My hands tend to break what they touch.  
The glass bowl in the pet store.  
                               The clay project in art class.  
                                                        ­    The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
                                                                                    good at trauma.

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

you told me i was an eagle
simple as that, i believed you
tied my shoelaces together
took off my shirt
jumped from the roof with you
holding my hand

you told me i was unstoppable
so i never gave up
still making propellers
out of paper mache and
over-watering the succulents

you told me you loved me
with your fingernails in
the soft young flesh of my back
you swore you weren't a liar
but we were both drunk
you wrote your phone number on my cast

you told me once
that i was a big engine
and i took it to my powerless heart
did some body work
ran screaming through the streets
roaring naked at midnight
perched on a solar eclipse
singing sinatra to a cat.

I sing my succulents to sleep
Sip teacups brimming with cold water
House fifteen strays who have forgotten how to purr
Because not everything needs to make sense
And in these oddities I find the strength
To rationalize your death.

through the looking glass i see.
i know right, im that girl
whose life is far from the word perfect
and no one wants to be me.
cracked, bitter, gloomy, broken ?

and im dealing with my own self.
hiding under my blankets, dark in my own cave.
introverted soul trapped in an extroverted personality.
they tell me im emotionless,
but im just not good at expressing my feelings.
they say im neglectful,
i think they just cant dip into my world.
they say im freaking out,
for me im just me

but whose life im living now?
oh for God's sake!
imma live my own life,
not other people's life.
im gonna go a hundred miles and live my dreams.
i will be who i wanna be.
im gonna scream, im gonna sing.
i will write hundreds of poetry, thousands of poetry.
i will free myself.

i will heal myself.
im buying new pillows, new cute glasses,
i will paint my nails blue and green,
i will dye my hair.
taking sick days and letting myself fall apart
but just then i will buy myself some candies and i will be okay again.
i just wanna be alright again and i know i will.
im gonna laugh till i cry,
im gonna skip classes to study at the library.
imma be disgusting and cry into my wounds.
going on a walk by myself
and tell everyone they look gorgeous.
i will dress nicely,
and make others feel alright about themselves.
imma read books, drink a cup of tea, and buy myself succulents.

i wanna love hard, i want an extraordinary love.
im gonna love the people i love.

i wanna be mad, passionate, going insane.

i dont want mediocres,
my love is not a mediocre thing.

i will live my life and i'll be okay.

Skin
Still sensing
Still sore
                                     From scratches
Still sensitive

To sound
Like shockwaves                                  E    D   N
                                                          S    N    I     G

Repeated
Repeated

******* ******* ******* *******

Sensations of

V I B R A T I O N
H Y D R A T I O N

                                    Tongue torn
                                          Sore
From tickling licking
                                          Skin with sharp
                                                                           E
                                                                           D
                                                                           G
                                                                           E
                                                                           D stubbles
Sore *******
        ******* sore from
                                      Hardening
                              From bites
                      And from
                                       Fingertips fondling

And sore muscles
Aching from f
                         l
                            e
                               x
                            i
                        n
                    g
     Arching

                     Repeated contraction contraction
                                                                                      X
CONTROL                                                            A
                                                                        M
                                                                  I
                                                         L
                                     of      C

Fire

Sore sensitive
Succulents
Sore from oscillation
                                    Provocation
Still soaked
In saps
             D  R
                     I
                     P
                     P
                     I
                     N
                     G
                             Devilish desire

The mind's eye
Sore
From mimicking
                                Mo ve ments
Imprinted
                  In memory
                                       Driving me

MAD

I want more...

I.

los angeles is nearing fire season—
soon, ash will be falling
in place of rain, drowning houses
down the hill
in the flesh of their neighbors.

II.

I’ve given up writing much.
the succulents in my skull are too thirsty
to survive.

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

the black and white photographs you took
five years past still hang framed in my room,
just above my turntable. Deja Entendu
spills from the stereo as the needle finds its groove.
a shelf filled with all the records
we used to listen to for hours
lines the wall and succulents
adorn the windowsill, waiting patiently
for the rare rays of sun, golden
and flossy as your hair,
which somehow manage
to peek between the tenement rooftops
every now and then.

we still live in the same town. sometimes,
people bring you up. they ask me how you are,
how long it's been since i've heard from you.
i neglect to tell them that, aside from absentee
notifications popping up on my phone
at intermittent variations, we've only spoken once,
in a crowded, little coffee shop
in the city we both love to hate.

you pretended you didn't see me, but i felt your eyes
notice me at the bar as i sat typing another story,
bobbing my head, listening to Daughter.
if i hadn't approached you, i imagine
you would've acted like i was invisible.
the conversation was terse, abbreviated.
i find it strange how once
we were the best of friends
and now we can sit twenty feet apart
and act like we never knew each other at all.
i can't really recall why
our friendship collapsed in the first place.
have i suppressed it? or was it just the casual
slip, like Pangea, elapsed time
fracturing our continent.

a good too many
snaps and cracks
from the skeletal forest
a gentle brushing
from an acrylic wind
that promenades itself
on marble toes
that crack and shatter
in gouache throes of
violence that
gilds the branches in
flowing starlight
a craggy ribcage
of sprouts and succulents
that paint a scene with
watercolor irony
an eager scrawling
of earthbound rabble
that hops freight trains
and skips life away
a conflict of self
flourished in opals
and ravished in
scented velvet
a good too many
fears and
desires

Enter only through the revolting door.
River running down sleep steeps to the sea.
A dearth of beer cans wish for so much more.
Content and coherence all plain to be.
Why were we made large to become so small?
Desperate succulents clinging to rocks.
Play what you will, by good, and pluck it all!
That bunch in the noose really rooked your socks.
Worlds woven with words wear quickly away.
Be grateful for just a line of knowing.
This weather appears to be hear to say.
Everything's gathered in tears a-flowing.
     Play with those sounds completely at your ease:
     No words were harmed in the making of these.

I shovel the dirt in the ***,
    And white rocks for display.
I start to dig an empty spot,
    In soil, my plants lay.

A small obsession has grown large,
    My love grows like a plant.
As roots stem out, they start to lurch,
    In hopes of sun, they slant.

After time, they will get bigger,
    And demand attention.
My small connection to the Earth,
    For only plants, I’m patient.

Time and time again I’ll check,
    And watch all my plant’s growth.
The roots are long and stems are thick,
    And bigger than I’ve hoped.

They have been dead but back to life,
    So easy to revive.
My mother’s plants have had some strife,
    Yet mine always survive.