A torrent of chemicals

shit storm of pesticides

vile spewings of a plastic

bucket of genocide drugs

I think I’ll kill some bugs.

Little chirping creatures

incessant tapping legs

devouring green features

my garden made in spring,

sick remnant, summer fling,

Summer lightning bugs soak

in black summer night stars,

no reflection is seen in dew,

love is the presence of wind

the vacuum of how we sinned.

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The birds of paradise cannot fly.
Not with ginger wings, nor the dreams
of stargazer lilies on a cool evening,
but they riot in the wind;
make inches of headway
before returning again
to their static stalks,
green spindles of cellulose
keeps them firmly grounded
in the rough dirt.

The bees are their envy,
flying easily around cymbidium orchids,
legs covered in dank pollen, sweet nectar,
en route to their own land
of hexagons and honey,
mathematicians and fixtures
of an old fable.

You, darling, are not these.
You are the breeze
which gathers under dusty wings,
that pulls birds of paradise
just far enough from their roots
to taste freedom but never fly.
You lift them high.
The bees are beckoning
you to be their queen,
the leaves are poised to sing
to you at sunrise,
the envious orchids
take note of your beauty,
wishing they could capture
It in their offspring.

The riot is not inside of you.
It is you.
It is not inside your heart,
it is in every part.

Gather up the red-claw tulips

From dreary Amsterdam

and remember the winter,

the falling season of passion

vicious and wet, cold as a heart

in an eternal Alaskan sunset.

In pyres or as fire,

will you burn or be cast

into flames and consumed?

Where will your loyalties lie,

in what district will you reside,

wandering lost or coming inside?

There is a tiny home here in the woods

built inside the warmest earth.

will you do what you know you should?

 

the love I word,
you are an utterance sublime,
of a whisper from the last dry lips
at the end of a ten year drought.

pennies found wishing wells, 
replaced the wicking beds.

the love I word,
you spun in jell-o summer cocktails,
drank dry martinis to remind you
of the water’s last time.

the permission to listen
discovered promiscuity.

the love I word,
you’re measured in nautical miles,
an audacious ship vacillating
at two ends of a clogged channel.

the vessels are crumbled
carcasses on stone beaches.

the love I word,
I have witnessed the torrid shadows
you cast while dancing with hubris
on the stage where we first met,

the actors are dungeons,
tender tendrils for hearts,

the love I word,
you are delicately ensconced, 
centered in my daft heart’s home,
emblazoned in the backs of my eyes.

no other light escapes
no other light enters.

Traffic in Austin
Bloated metal, concrete lanes
I need a brain scan

Anorexia
The television is fat
A different symptom

Such a cloudy grey
My favorite way of day
Another grey day

Bottles of bourbon
What a solid piece of glass
Who was the child?

To value the light
There must be a darkness first
February love

Ate bacon pancakes
Fell in love with her color
A purple mountain

Winter will escape
Summer will come to narrate
We will all fall down.

I have volition
I have nothing but a scar
False dichotomy.

These deeper throes go
like so many night candles
that burn out early.

Everything’s a choice
be it love, fear, fight, or flight.
What more need be said?

Crimson claws interlaced
In the morning,
Open to the afternoon sun.

And baby, how blue can
You get today?
The sun rose for this man.

Long stems straight up
Strong insides
I pluck the perennial flowes.

Goodbye to a name I’ll never know,
a label lost in the void of the infinite.

Heavy rainstorms come more frequently,
watering the garden of absence.

If the seasons never changed
how would we know when to harvest?

Trepidation came and took her from me,
while I quietly sulked with my grasshoppers

and they chirped out a song to explain the storm.
Aborigines of the conscience whispering, “nay”.