No Need For Ceremony

After a memory is resurrected,
slow, slow...
Quick.
The breath is discordant and
morning’s eye is hostile.
Steps that trundle as
defeated trains
enter open aired markets.

DEFIANT!

Seemingly unsolicited
we burst
into our neighbors,
releasing the
acrimonious casings
of our closest
snakes.

Whether
disguised as a vulpine dove,
or concealed
by aching masks,
we are yoked in ire.
We are
sallow
with
luxurious
boredom.

See this ship,
It cannot bear
our landscape.

And so looking to smile,
and sit,
with day laborer's,
cooling swollen eyes
in
rainwater.
If looking
to learn,

but from the humble and rare exceptions,

may we take note.

Now
and
through this famine,
may
our foreheads
become
weathered and
calloused
from
obsequious bows,
on
unsentimental
ground.

with d

little,
she can't pronounce special yet.
so it's fossil..


my fossil one,

where is my fossil one?

Want To Share Times?

Humility’s song-
can be a night of certain execution.
The air is laden with voices,
numbly hysterical,
familiar,
indistinguishable from any era.
Sentences might have shifted slightly, to compliment
today’s gilded lies.
Yet the weight of this fine collection,
these found speeches of precious cutlery
cannot hold.

And as the burden of our language,
boils and festers under rational lenses,
we can no longer afford our
bloated artillery of monologues.

And so it may go,
that as a chandelier,
unhinged and impatient
implodes and dives
at a hostile foundation,
our fraudulent declarations,
disguised as chatoyant gems
scatter,
in shame.
Then,
a wild scurry to tuck away
and hide
and hold
and hide.

Are you here?
Yes.

Well alright,
let’s try this again.

Instead of being caught in
our steady version of barbed wire,
let’s try a fresh song,
one
of curious alyssums,
shared.
...
And let’s sway,
widely,
as the most amicable of willows,
in bemused silent fields.
With
nothing
in
mind.

Tomatillo

Dearest,
They have decided not to lay cover crops this year.
Sitting outside, leaning really
against haggard bricks and a chain linked fence,
a feeling arises,
becomes clear amongst the smoke tendrils,
something akin to reverie.
There are scatterings of transparent husks, arranged according to their falls.
They perch alive,
amongst the hay, boggy compost, and molded root systems.
Collected dew clings to gossamer skin.
Opal and peridot hues take their leave from winter light; settle in a breathless touch.
This match,
frailty and strength,
have aligned with obtuseness.

…And dearest, you are not needed here.
There are no wishes embedded in the sweat of guarded palms.
No calls tethered to hopeful wings, released.
Withered vocal chords, beseeching in a cacophony of desperate prayers.

No,
none of this dear.

No voice close by,
compelled to proselytize the infallible works of god.

Just this,

Silent tomatillo, little green tomato
may I be with you?