Old writings, newly jostled

You are wise to be wary

of me who walks

reckless, heart

unhinged,

whose face must say "desperation"

though I try to 

play it poker. 

I'll erase it again,

find my feeling,

bind up a bit.

Where is soft fall, or lilt?

Only old swollen fruit,

good for smash crashing on

concrete, or otherwise giving back to

the earth?

Better to keep me at bay

(I'd stray), and point me toward other,

less tender prey.

2000/2021

Turkeys susurrating

nights, if

indeed that's

what they were;

the bounty of

shooting stars

seen from the balcony

I didn't know I had;

the phantasy that 

kept me going.

I seem to have

forded a river,

time two, its

frenetic flow

not long gone.

Do I dream?

Am I stone 

insane? it IS

to suck stone 

when hungry,

but today,

sweet today--

Fresh figs

off the tree.

2011

Morning, March

Daytime slips balm breath

over through all my     skin.

Bird feathers thrustle.

Veronica offers truth in blue.

Rough wintry layers peel

if you help them.

I have no handmaiden

in any season.

The bones set to rush

from this present,

lost to further jollies.

The earth always asks

Where are you, my    pip?

I am more moss,

bubbling brook,

than pair of pants.

This is nothing new,

or unique.

I could kick in your teeth.

I could spit back.

What is a need?-----------------

Wound? Adventure?

Normalcy?

Dispense with dialectic.

I'd ruther a dildo for my time, or a 

lusty lover. Tender, too.

I have something to give.

It's all mine.

It pushes through typical 

dirt.

It has nothing to say,

as no one cares, or they

find thrift in their

tales only.

This must be enough,

everything.

2013

Proverbial soft and hushed

comes the snow this night.

Will anyone believe me

in feeling our spark, steam and simmer

brought it down?

It was a Thursday.

Common to nod THAT right.

(interruption by irate roommate)

(lapse of seven months)

I plan on lemon

raw

to flavor my nether,

bank on

all rushing swift-winged

AND simultaneous nose-cleaning. 

We have been angel 

each to the other,

a never-before for this one.

May the dream

lift tender,

dripping

from its mud

to balmy mid-range,

to heights,

remembering

roots.

January/August 2014