Pillow under the head,
body laid in a bed,

black splotched red

behind the eyes, and
a breath somehow
wakens the rest

What is that thing
that looks better
than it looks

like it gets better
than this?

True: it's a never-
lasting thing,
like a countdown

Sea or broom
the meaning

runs out of room
to have legs to move--
and like the self

(in love) and useless debris
tends to get swept away

How precious death
and senseless life

when wives should
lie not for her man in
pleasure but in duty

dies giving birth
to his children

who will make more

You think
you know
beauty

better than
the bee, but

Flowers turned pretty
for them-- so we say
Flowers turned pretty
for them

because of evolution and propagation

and not how the bug sees
something pretty enough

--for a human
to say its pretty
enough--

and go to it

My father wanted
a son and got daughters

Much like how I
wanted a lover and
got you instead

What jealous
freshness

wants is
the tickle

of microbes
from meatstink

The soul sings
of sweet succulent

freedom: not needing
much else but a sip of sun

and a
nudge of
water

here
and
there

Tired of sleeping,
eyes still closed,

mind oddly clear
—boredom does that,
searches so blindly and
fervently for a thought or

idea that it bursts into
a bright dark nothing,

sweeping wave over the
wide endless expanse of
ethereal wiring

Something comfy but
ill fit, come get through this stretch
of time for a while