I could study in a nuclear bunker, anxious at the time of the world-view end, persuasion happens: and women happen, too.
full magnolia blooms —in june, before true expectation of summer realizes herself in unfolding of present into pastime memories.
full magnolia blooms —in november, inexperience and poisoned influence, nostrils caked & dopamine spiked^ but autumn created her warrior in me. dying, dancing, freezing and so:
full magnolia blooms — in january, wind chills enough for the shaking of my skeleton and a social life enough to sustain me: a binging socialite, but: full magnolia blooms —bloom,falter,expand,change,fall,fade,die:
so now: yogis bow to seal intention, jesus pleads and buddha’s chanting, hope so corporeal the girl is panting, on an inhale, her shadow goes dancing…
i whisper to the sky how, i love the lines of you, the photography of you the way that you move.
maybe it’s the mexican martini, i’ve only had half of one and i feel like i’ve given away almost a whole of my heart. what was left to give in shattered pieces joyfully. mine, yours, we’ll grow together as the second hand clicks onward, honestly.
the future that i see is chaotic, but blends beautifully, maybe my immune system misses yours but i could speak a thousand words and none of them would be as sincere as:
when i look at you, and i look at you, when i realize you see it in how i observe, beautiful, it’s all so colorful, so brilliant, so desperate and grasping and lemons and l, o, v, e, in time after this hour chimes.
my compass may not point north, but it always points straight.
it’s strange as a scientist to walk in and recognize someone, not their hair, maybe not their eyes just luminous smile, the way time twines and untwines our threads into ropes, and maybe an anchor maturing from growing pains.
but i do. serpent to my staff, i have been waiting all my life to run into your arms, pull your hair to
to what the ultimate expression of lust? rutting and wanting and wanting more.
i’m not sure how i’ve ended up because there are no endings made, or finished in cities full of alleyways and feral cats. hiding under tires to show you will survive and i will survive, and the land will bloom again.
no endings but the present unwraps little trinkets from 50 cent machines. in grocery stores and upcoming haircuts, shorn in time for spring.
and the normal non-noise of yardwork down the street before mariachi music begins and afternoon presents pop open like a brew top.
i am just a writer, but a queen of words, sighs and cries and orgasms poured into pages, surviving digital degradation and heart-breaking hurricanes. born on a river to be borne out to sea, returned only to sail through this life because i am, T H E
CAPTAIN and i thrive in t i d e s of change. i take down my history and make it ours. writing the beat of my spoken song. inform deformed thoughts, spew metaphors like a gum-ball machine whose glass i smashed,