Category Archive

Some fruits surprise everyone in being sour, not sweet, In refreshing via acerbic notes, in missing from markets For long months. Some glabellas wrinkle prematurely, yielding liver lines, Also, general indications of stress, maybe, additionally, Closed minds. Some ideas remain attenuated, contracted, otherwise cut Short. Those concepts regularly slip from view, deflect The blessing on limes.

junkies connect with their drug. pushers connect with their junkies. the connection’s so good, the dopers even call the pushers Mama. and alkies connect with their elixir drunk sometimes from golden goblets. sales pitchers connect [when they score] with the buyers and lovers connect majestically in the moonlight. the writers connect with the word on the page and the fiber …

Mother had a knack for buying beautiful things. Why she gave them to me, I haven’t a clue. Look at this gilded saucer, is it? Fringed with gold, blueberries, des peches, And crunchy apples bequeathed. Look at the hand towels that swing in the downstairs Powder room. Five of them, knit by hand. Colorful, as alive as Mother is dead. …

For some reason this poem takes You out of place, out of time. For Some other reason when you think Of this hymn, it is a warm night, A Sunday, all three windows flung Open, and we stand together, And sing together, in a shy A cappella. And a few times I remember our pastor’s wife, To help us out, …

Here inside the shattering, I watch the unfathomable invisible veil of un-earthly revelations encircling us in metaphysical mystery covering our eerie madness with celestial visions observing us – masked humans wearing death masks tasting inhaling suffering asking why In the deep snow of despair I speak with the Ultimate Nothingness & the snow falls from the Heavens the heavy snow …

in the year of second sight all looked back and not ahead so they missed the chance to fool the future and were forced to suffer again a past not worth repeating.

This existence is a cave caged in unknowing. My consciousness and yours- two primitives figuring out the aesthetics of everythingness. You rub your words against mine, a fire is borne out of stone.

I’d glide away into the cosmic flow in quiet of the canopy of night to leave the tumult of the world below with wishes having wings to guide my flight. In quiet of the canopy of night the stellar orbs cast light in shining beams. With wishes having wings to guide my flight their faces seem a universe of dreams. …

i can’t remember how old i was when i realized that this body does not belong to me perhaps it is a trophy, hung on the wall my bones are stuck between the teeth of full-bellied hunters and my blood is a satisfying aftertaste stained at the corners of lips that are not mine this body is not mine this …

We never had the rules of monogamy. We never had anybody’s rules. I guess that made us special, living outside the boundaries of what everybody expects. But I guess it’s a gut check when you start thinking you’re the exception. One minute, you’re doing poppers before you cum to relax the next minute you’re in an empty apartment huffing that …