Arduous late Winter
woes amplify in February
false hope

We’re all sick
of constrictive clothes
and cold climes conducive to staying in

Cabin fever running rampant
45° t-shirts & sunglasses
everyone driving with their windows down  

Hoping Vernal rituals
performed early will
hasten Spring’s arrival

I’m done
fed up
ready to move on

Going crazy in the cold
writhing to get moving unimpeded
by frigidness and snow

I’m ready for Spring
for Summer
for Fall

I’m ready for the scent
of thawing soil in the air
biking in the Sun, verdance, and flowers in bloom

I’m ready for grass between my toes
Fireflies, crickets, peepers
and warm night stars


I’m sick of frost reddened runny raw noses
sick of numb fingers and toes
and having precious few daylight hours

I’m sick of combatting glacial winds with layers,
of treacherous icy apathy,
and dreary bleak boredom

I’m sick of not being able to sit on the ground
sick of long pants, long socks, long sleeves,
and silent stagnant long nights

So, despite the fact
that I’ll pine for January
every day over 90°

Despite the fact
that when mosquitoes swarm
I’ll wish a frost would **** the little *******

and despite the fact
I’ll get just as fed up
with temperate seasons

I still want Spring
and then Summer
and then Fall

But February brings false hope
and despite the lengthening cheery sun
months still stand

between us and t-shirt weather
mild nights, grassy hills,
  and emancipation from an inclement icebox atmosphere

This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.

I ****, I ****, by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.

I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.

It's  a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.

I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.

Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.

But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.

Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.

happy flights :)

Spring is a frail garment
In soft, sheer verdance
Dyed with chastely pigments
Laced with gentle fragrance

and i say the sun is callous
     for nothing ever shall be
so
                beautiful

as the delicate fronds splayed unerringly
before my hands. and i do place my vestige
in its thrall and as it is i am nothing compared
to the softness of its belly. so lay inlaid with
rouge splendor and indelible.

   beneath  and
under and my tongue
is the sprouted clavicles
an orchard of pleasure in verdance
     blazingly dim in the moon puddles
writhing     the    muscles of implacable sensation. go to the tiny hall


            and whisper

with Venus. she is grace and smooth and the sea muttering
with the loose wind. fashioned from naked blood.

there's a song singing
in the trees
a worry
growing in the shadow.

they can feel it,
the trees,
they know.

know not what's
to come, but what's
been become.

it's becoming
right now
as our eyes blink
in doubt, in ignorance.

they blink,
not faster,
but more often than not.

setting aside
increments of
lost time.

there's nowhere
to run, except
through time that's
already been happened.

what's done is done.

tears fall beneath
heads on pillows that
know not why they cry.

loneliness is suffocating,
don't you know?
you're not alone
while you're with only you.

truth cuts, but a
wound relieves
pressure.

roots of the trees
tunnel a base of
security for the trunk...

while we expect
verdance upon
concrete...

growth upon faltering grounds.

heaped i
with dirt shall
produce a babe
(greenly a thousand
****** against the sun
will stand against his heat
)a shimmer gently child
of softly hair mostly
a body innumerable
so thick with verdance

            (and
                i will
           laugh
               and say,
       "was there ever any death?"

the quiet always

of death

who leans into us a

          bit more
          each day and
          who's
          ivory
          stillness
                        creeps

death
          who steals

           crisp young

                     petals

                     from

                      inMay

                      trees


death
                      whose
                      leagues
                      upon miles
                      upon fathoms
                      of dreamless
                      shuteyes
                      strengthless
                      and wilts
                      mutest
                      uncolour

                      shall filch
                      meoryou
                      to soon from the other
                      's, unyouthing
                       also, arms

                                                but death never
                                                will conquer
                                                the svelte
                                                instant of your smile
                                                or the unlank verdance
                                                of their
                                                snarling crimson
                                                imping
                                                with my lips
                                                soundless
                                                legions of
                                                eternal
                                                SUMMER

To give us naught but bleak display,
To say, to say,
Love has never tethered moon
That way,
That heather never blooms but brays
To drop the stars in sage and grays.

And in this flash hewn verdance sent,
Aghast the sea in violet vent,
Abhors the ******-singed regret,
This skirmish lost though never met.

And where upon a furrowed leaf,
The miner enters as a thief,
To take the blood but not belief,
Was not the time to span a grief?

But given naught but bleak display,
That tethered moon has gone astray,
And pulls not tide but skin away,
To slink beyond a son and pray.

i've spent my life lolling about,
taking easy roads to pastel-colored beds
tangling limbs,
rubbing skin with the seasons.

i've slurped at the nectar of writhing ****
with the fullness of the night sky behind me

and as she swooned,

i felt the moon watch my ignorant head,
felt the moon fill with suspense as i rejected the sun:

i've poured water all over the papier-mâché goddess
and slept on top of soggy lumps
in a cement box,
an idiot vandal.

and i thought about life.
and i told you about my thoughts.

so i stay moored and safe, mom & dad
i stay
deep beneath the waves,
scrubbing months of crud from the decks.

and the moon is heading for the churning sea
and the fragile cradle of my dreams is going down...

i'm thinking it is time
to sew a new season--
and turn the rest green
with unrivaled verdance.

so i turn to the ***** noctis
and start gently