He likes primate hiding in night
when the Moon's right
thinking He is Jupiter
a catch me Sun
to rise as You can ...
the fir trees are armed eating sorrows
when and where the morrows reach
in shepherd fruit tree early bloom jazz
there is room for every vignette saved you(s)
shoe boxes full of Polar-oids, movie stub maybe(s)
all the why ways You came stay hazy(s)
Mary Magdalene and Lilith were Gethsemane leaning in slay(s)
Golgotha had all right, Saturday Night fever
in olives and wine spilling where a table once stood
soldiers on the ready, not withstanding evidence
or even understanding
the plan was to kill everyone
by their own hands and blind faith
but Love got in the work
again, and no one knows
how many are needed
to trip line the story
as Earth being reborn ...
are the gist, the guests of the grist mill
mules and asses turning stones \
with old growth timber
hand hewn smooth strewn tales
each wish is a fish
a calendrical angel
falling our way '
we, poem and I, till to harvest
day time when
a single star feeds us light
and night time reminds us, fight
for Love grows in the dark
especially when the fae
sway toes swinging
up into the sky ...
what the trees wrote on the blackboard
when non one was looking ...
"What if everything you believed in,
was based on a holographic corroborative lie ...
reflection in a pond at night: ritualized time signatures
akin to fae scents transporting you back
to when you smiled without provocation ..."
chances are at some point
you will wish crooning
never went out of style ...
and that you never knew trees
could feel things too
viscous vicious eggs and beets
pickled in glass jar revelry
your hands end up stream
crawling the fallen angels route
of self discovery, bees and Prometheus
children with Antigone
eyeball of Oedipus
slung around her neck ...
head water rafting
tsk-ing zither and bullfrogs again
approach of midnight dances with me ...
so many things we did
were swallowed by us
we peed golden streams
pharmacological night mares
brood morning found in alley after surgeries
we go to the barber shops
red and white pole blood spills then
we understood nothing except
to keep going after keys
quests to each of the kingdoms
that ever were raced or seemed stolen
or at least tethered to circumstances
nearing to pass what impossible,
the word, was designed for ...