NASA Image of the Day

Friday, July 19, 2019


Impossible chasms, dissolving, in a tectonic shift so sudden
And swift
The twirls and whirls of firmer terra than me
Helplessly, overlapped and stacked neatly, like
Ordered carbon DaVinci orb,
Quirked and Smirked with

Oh, where the disentangled arms, reaching forward: not yet, not yet:
Leaf from-palm and beat baby, stroking
The shadow away;
Seared sudden sun probe beamed focus,
Move Groove
Daily special,
Checked and charmed and
Scent sole
Scintillating meld of all things

The carbon marble, joined and

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Older Women

Reach in, reach in;

Reach down....way way down, past pretty boy phrase and flip finger smiles.

Let him know a part of that part that's hidden deep, somewhere dark and dangerous;
Somewhere where ink rarely goes, and only tenuously....tremulously, like
Untried cadence, and respectful pronouns, still capitalized.

That fire erupting and eviscerating part;
That claw back and fight-for-air-part that no one sees but him.
Let him know it exists, like you, still;

Past the fashion tips from thin cherubs who've never died twice, or passed one out of themselves,
After the stones you lived through to be able to say you did;
smug in their spaghetti straps, never fighting against gravity;
Past dire moanings of twisted pipes and pools of women-gut lives, seen and patched up and patted, rough girl style;
Let him see it shriek darkly and silently, shorn and torn
Bereft and moaning, alone, later, with a Scotch, being stronger.

Let him dig deeper....past the supersized selves and armour of flesh, floating and blanketing,
Hiding coal pit parts of you, mined and scarred, from eyes with no orbs, or worlds, aching to be run through, grain by grain, like those grubs you ingested to eat you back to acceptable, insanely.

Let that part out in terrifying bursts of sunlight and gloom, living Vogue cadaver that you thought
You might be more lovable as, shamed and standing there, with your woman breasts.

Let him feel that writhing, as you cleaned out the last bit of motherhood in you, like menopause,
Happier for no more goddamned bleeding, so you could finally love the fucker
And Feel Good, praying you could live through it - so you could live it, instead of

Reach in, Row Wanda girl, he says to me,
And I pull out my own guts like William Wallace, wanting, at last
To acknowledge the succession of pikes, sans fish,
Winded and wandering, that will not meet
My eyes, even now.

Come, thin-Duked girl, he whispers,
Show them the cheroot,
The rolled gold,
The tried true have-enough, labouring,
The haunted smiles and gaunt girls, wizened,
Still not rich or thin enough, but smarter:
Relegated to the shrivelled and thin enough, at last;
Guilt free and
Fitted with darts.

"Yes", you intone to the phantom everpresent behind your eyes,
You think he might be able to
Take it all,
...and you let him
Adore the restraint.

Stepping neatly and precisely out of the small flesh cave,
Torch aloft, feigning
Lady Lazarus,
You excrete

Saturday, July 13, 2019

Stalwart storied building

I expect that a green and lace-sprayed victory, (thrown like a warmed and cedar-scented  throw upon thy nakedness, consideration, yearning, and neural capacity)

Would be a Doukhabor shock of love to thee, standing salt stalwart, wanting.

I expect what I intend. I do what I am compelled to do. I shelter as I will, with instant and immediate lack of guile, accused of complicated sexuality; blamed for boredom; mocked for surface and facile vicissitude. I am none of these, of course. I am studied recourse, and depth, responding.

But....oh darling mouth, oh tousled fatigue....I am spark, unforgotten. I am reminder, and impetus, and breathless exercise and warmed and comforted adoration, sighing and dreaming.

Self-caged, I persist. Beaten down, I flicker, simmering; sprout, defiantly; think...decidedly.

Rave on. xo