the bones were hard to give up,
they pushed out like daisies
caressed under the hounding
heart of a copper sun.
unbridled and undried they bore
zealous arrogance of themselves,
petals dripping ****** convictions
and vibrating like awful angels.

under cruel devices they tried to
soften my bones and mold thick skull
constructed of lackluster candles
on their last flame.
days passed like doctors and white nurses
examining old wires that pray tell
the routines, the stools, the teeth.
i am their Jesus, their Lazarus.

my hearse, my sheep keeper,
my pretty things,
i become the acrobat at the
finale, the last supper,
supplementing at the **** of my
recovery. i lay my skin down for all
of you to see:  here is my breast!
my toad belly!  my glass feet!

High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling

Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait

High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination

I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak

I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting

The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus

Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness

I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery

The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad

No. I write against.
(Aihmeanlike, against it.)
No, against it.
Like this.
[The point is pressing
A dark circle down down down.]

So (Djiuknowhatuhmean?)
I clash on this. After doing that
All day, on air! With conscious
Breath, (which is just force myself
Breath!) out of the glued muck
Moss in my sere bellum. My
Me do lah. Oblong god. Duh.

How long, these fractured
seams of seemlessness around?

In the meantime, here’s
some words, an image of a
Stream, and I’ll say: “Like a dead
Man(’s passing.)” Look at it.
And you thought infinity
Could be brushed off like a fly!
Wring your wet sloppy self!
Undried, then sundried!
Well. Now, you are one-eyed.

But what about that cry
Of true voice swishing lost
And found in the growing
Concrescent infundibular
Abyss?

Oh, that might be the Sublime
Sadness! (That one mentioned
once.) Keeping the Eternal
Walker out in the dwindling
Afternoons, closer than tears
To littered ponds of cold light.

Will he pull out the solidified
Spirit, or precipitate his freedom
As indistinguishable from the
Mystery? Oh. Please. Then the
Self would be (the question).
And there. Would be. No.
Need for the asked king.

Wind that passed
You left
No reason
No goodbyes

Time that passed
Tears undried
Heart that
Always broke

Moments that passed
You came
A new heart
You held

Wind that passed
Tears undried
You came
I left

I've ceased my habit of cigarette smoking;
I can smell sun rays melting the tar within streets we've been driving on.
Accumulating debris line the sides of city streets,
Leftovers from a thunderstorm's retreat.

Valleys and mountains seem to have undried green
Patches and dry rivers run temporarily exhilarated;
A swelling rush through landlocked zone,
Becoming such a secretive and succulent oasis.

A Summer season like this symbolically:
Within harsh desolate heat,
Air is voraciously evaporating liquids of life,
Creatures adapted for unpredictability;
Schemes for overcoming, constantly changing.

Somewhat repeatable patterns of Summer downpour seems like a blessing.
A rather rash and quick burst, calling to attention
A reminder that it will soon pass.
Advising to allow any present moment to fully consume your consciousness;
Savoring every solitary drop.

We are fragile for different reasons.

I have never been dropped or scraped.
I am not mature enough to be hurt.
I am not a full sculpture.

You were thrown and shattered.
Fragments flew everywhere.
You were glued back together but there are too many discarded shards.

I will tell you I love you for now.
I will say it honest and proud.
But I will always have a fear of chipping off undried pieces.
And that's a sort of terrible thing.

Angel cried
But her tears
We’re left undried
The words
We’re left unspoken
No clouds my
Wings are broken
Now my heads
At war
Do I just let
Go of what
I see
The night
A stranger died
Is when she found
Herself inside
Like a pearl
Deep in the ocean
You’ll never find a
Tear your eyes
are open

My love
is such a burden for you to carry
it is filled with fury
childhood grief
undried tears , years of no belief
my love
is filled with never speaking
learning to whisper
never shout
a bundle of miscommunication
my love is full of  loud words
never reaching their mark
like wounded birds
my love always too stark
never quite smooth enough
my love is such a burden for you to carry
upon your  open honest heart

When it comes to bread, the
general public are seduced
by the misconception that
"FRESH" means wholesome.

Not true.

A bakery could just as easily
state " NOT STALE " and achieve
the same result as Fresh which is
an optical subliminal.

Fresh is a word used to garnish
what could be tainted with a
herbicide pesticide or fungicide.

Fresh salads from a garden that
is sprayed regularly with Roundup ™.

Are you getting my drift?



fresh
adjective
1 salads made with fresh, wholesome ingredients: newly harvested, garden-fresh, not stale, crisp, firm, unwilted, unfaded; raw, natural, unprocessed, unpreserved, undried, uncured, unsmoked, without additives, without preservatives. ANTONYMS stale; processed.