Your Mysteries Are Miseries Cleverly Hidden In Mud

I found it there where it had been left on its side, silently tilting.
Goldenly perfect it began to move. Wondering what it was and where it was from, my eyes made it mine. Shivering from within, the luminous slithering form grabbed at the earth with sheltered fists, making its way with careful sincerity to where I stood. Waiting.


Your hope.
Your hope makes me smash at this carbonized form.
Breathing to break free. Desperate for sorrow.

These legs that hold me? They were arms a minute ago.
And a minute from now they'll be the air you bring deep into your dark depths.
It can't be helped.

Fragrant with waves that taste of Spring [it said]: Hope.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------->



The days are cold.

The nights are smothered with scarves and the hush of expectations whispered into bottomless glasses. Old friendships run to ground, gasping their last breaths, bellies leaking sugared secrets into the malted surf.

"Talk straight," he said.

"I do. All week long. But on days when the sun meets me halfway, I like to hum."

"Fine, but as long as you're humming..."





[Remember]






Good things come in threes.

Coming Up Poses

I am a leader of men. My beauty and power make you love me. Love me or else.

Was written in black nail polish over her bed.

"What do they say to that?"

"Who?" she said.

"Umm. The people who sleep there with you."

"I dunno if they're staring at my walls, bitch."


True that. True that.

You Remind Me Of Someone You Thought You Knew. No Really. It's 2008 and Everything's Grrreeaat!!

Is it an epic slavering beast that drips these drops from high to low, the moisture needed to form from scattered ashen dunes the casual shadow of me left lounging in the aborted shade of some kneeling tree? Phew.

I don't know. Spit dries. Then what?

When the sky calls back its savor, will I gasp in arid wonder at my brief spell of togetherness-- when all the electric pulses paused in tandem their celestial pursuits to make me, for a tic, before shaking apart to hide in caves as crystals, or Fraggles or whatever your nose just Hoovered?

Yes. Sure. Why the fuck not? I like it like that. The little bits of you left on me, and to be fair, vise versa, make us partners in this shakedown. 50/50. My thieves honor is as good as yours, never fear.

Put down your guns, your garters, your gingerbread walls and know that whatever makes you breaks you-- it shakes you where you stand, shivering in the winds that can't care.

And your poems are pennies. Their copper stolen, collected on your busy hands and sturdy knees while you bumble amid tilting flowers already mined a million times by busier hands and sturdier knees.

Does that sound like Doom's gong on this fake-out of a Spring day?

I hope not.

Because this year feels good in my hands already; I feel like writing.