Spin

Axis unending

Pivot table of trauma

Fluctuating daily. 

Somewhere, a ledger sits

Waiting on a timeline

For an ending.

Roughage

We are contained 

In the incense of our skin. 

Living to breathe freely

Through all things - felt,  unspoken. 

I wade into the roughage 

Seeking grammatical justice

Finding little appeasement 

In colloquial etiquette.

I want the murder of silence

To give birth to centrifugal forces

That will light the way for the animal in us 

To engage in wilder ecstasies. 

To ignite the flammable pools we've filled

With our unending leakage of dismay

Milked from duties met, 

As time yielded proven metaphors. 

Respect can lead to resurrection 

As cosmic interplay unwraps Eden

The willingness to advance further

Breeds. 

Into the eroticism of intellect

I swallow the ocean of you

To drink my fill of all things masculine, 

And moving. 

A mating pair knows, that even in their silence - verbose desire thrives

Adding weight to the heady ingestion

Of their moist existentialism.

Letter to The East Coast

"I see today differently." - you say to me

"Hold my hand.
Let us walk and pass through more words." - my response

The banging quiet holds cuffs of metal bolted to the nerve of gritted teeth.
Sinewy barbed wire,
tacks down the a.m. ambition
once shitty influencers wake from dead napping

It's coffee without creamer these days
To unload more saturated fat
Making my innards bulletproof.

And they said 'defense' was an honorable role.
Positioning against all would-be aggressors
From possible point-taking
However, how mutable is the actual definition
To "defending" oneself, against - Self...?

Sssshhh.... I'm splitting words now,
Semantics never knew how far I'd wish to go.

What if the "Aggressor" seeks kindness,
Seeks love, and seeks softness.....
To satisfy hearts and all things 'cozy'
That need and want you and I for soft landing?

WTFuck then?

Are we blocking the 'point' of love?
... the point of life?
... the very point of existence?

I sit here for so many months, allowing
Time to turn into boulders and goad me.
Goad me into thinking that if I
Sit and do nothing - those monoliths
Of unspent potential will roll back
Down the fucking mountain I hauled
Them up - and crush me.

But- (never-ever start a sentence with the word 'but')
But!! The DEFENDER in me. Ahh yes,
The Wily defender - that bitch argues
points even better. She testifies
often that when that time arrives,
as my nerve and need settle into
their twilight - and the honey-pit betwixt
legs confines itself to the ether,
I will not only be alleviated, but
Proud to have outrun my tender soliloquies,
With gold-cup (first place variety) in hand.

Really? Really though.
Is this the context of, the woman in me?
Is this the race I run?
How the fuck can this- be O.K.?

And I am not saying I will progressively
Pursue any love-making mess
That gets to me, in desperation.

I am simply saying I should not employ
The use of an executioner, damn near
daily - to snuff my dreams of
Love and care.

There are many ways that love will
change a tempo, a vibration, and
even, our homegrown - inner chemistry

Would not the fine wind be a solid
mate for a day? ...to lavish away
that musky stubbornness we crank
hard into our elbows?
Or what of the wish that a
Dandelion wisp may bring?
To pluck and say 'yes' to the
Whimsy of its promise?

You and I need something more.
Fuck what we're owed, fuck all we've known. Fuck the garden
Of darkness we've tended to.

Say 'Yes' to the pleasantries that
Sluff away grime.

Say yes to the sunshine and becoming
More open to nature's flattery.
Say yes to a higher vibration;
Say yes to the light.
It won't be easy if we tell ourselves that.
So let us tell ourselves - otherwise.
Let ourselves become - lifted.

Love,

- Me

Mute

September came and left
And I, all the drier.
Have become a canker
With a voice that sings long,
Powerfully, and true.
Raiding my warmth for nothing.

Sinister.
Mute.
Decomposing.

The seriousness of self
Remediating.

Into Eternity.

Habitual life of mine
How is it we arrived here
To this place of festering distraction
Organic matter everywhere
Living, breathing, existing
Despite the foam I'm whipping.

A muscle pulled
The drawn bow of my back
Repenting. Paid for with interest
To the running up with weight,
Even when I knew better.
The blistering heat, it pushed me.

I slink into this mess
As practiced, forging wider borders
To extend my mournful obsessing.
Wtf is this poison I lather on profusely
Dicking around in aged cynicism
Waiting for permission to dry up

Waste is wasting more resources
Idly I carry on with it, welcoming decay.
Admitting regularly in silence but boldly nonetheless
That my time spent on love of amorous design
Be shot dead by this greasy shit elbow of mine.
Winter, into eternity, moving in.

Portland.

Blown
Into me
Comfort me.
I want to be woven in
To every tendril
Of vein
Bone
And elbow.

That maleness
You bring...
Fucked
In the temptation
Of what is yours
Not to give.

So we do this
Again
Distanced.
You North, and
I
South.
Far enough to be
Plastic

As long arms
Pull me
Into
That heated,
Blood-filled
Heart.
Rumbled in baritone
Pump.

This fucking head
Continues
To fall nowhere
Against itself,
Against walls,
Against concrete pillows.
Slaughtering
Rest.

You, one among few
Do this
This prying open of
Wounds
This chewing of
Potential.
Reinvigorating
The raw.

And my hound guarded gates
Give way in thought,
In theory,
In distaste.
The brooding
Pessimist-
Awakened.

Calm

Quinacridone magenta curly cues
Weaving near the surface
Deep purple squiggles
Own the mass.
Sun soaked segments
Sanctify time wisely spent
And even the sand cannot protrude
On warmly fulfilling afternoons
Of sea salted bliss.