Charred bones line his head dress and the children slurp at the last bites of flesh, but no one eats together and she horrified at their ugliness, drowns herself in the mirror and they laugh at each others pity and they sing to each others more-ish vanity as each slither of their compassion turns to silver as they vanish and the scene is repeated in the good book of the law, he’s entitled to everything. These days he doesn’t even have to label her a ***** you think they’ve got it now? I think most people harbor the notion that we’re not very civil and that laws are bent in favor of some. Listen, the good book of the law THINKS he has made a fool out of you and of me. But a fool steps off cliffs because she’s so in love with life that everything is enchanting and everything is magical. She is essential to being alive and well, yet they make her out to be public enemy number 1.  

Either way, he’s sneaking the children in plain sight under his belly of hate and she’s crying in shock she’s gob smacked at the rate in which his searing fear burns their connection to a respect for themselves, she is not bound to this flesh but she is bound to her duty as a mother, what fallow may this be I wonder as I sits and I waits in my sequoia self tree, I wonder as I sits and I waits in my mangrove mud.

She’s readjusting her vision and I’m over the hill, maybe I’m selfish maybe I’m cruel maybe I’m a jester to none, but I laugh a little tune and beat on my drum , maybe I’m downright rude but I’m not able to feel the depth of her mourning but I’m scared in it’s place       I‘ve got shadows on top of me and I don’t want to lose grace or compassion but it’s those ghosts that are leaving me slowly

s l o w l e y

and I want them away, let me open my arms now when I am ready.

I wonder with a heart beating yet, does it hurt him?
or does the taste of oblivion still whet?
Or is is the musk of revenge of who knows what, singing out sweetly on the breaking of one mothers back? Perhaps I lack the proper vision to see what this is all about. I ask that I relinquish myself from her now because I feel what she feels in such clarity and more often than not I’m shaken at the barbarity
that plays down on the unpleasant and on the wretched and at the stinky and it’s uncomfortable to stab myself every time she says I’m not perfect. Between you and me it’s easing, it’s easing. I know of the root to this nausea , it's the mother that came before her.

I’m not one to forget, but I’ll take my time to remember. Remember that my strength warrants my gentleness but that involves **** near heavenly trust because we’re nearing a precipice of our life long surrender
to the current
we’re flowing on and the ins and the outs my body has become a series of caves and the ocean licks at the curves and fills me all up to wash me out and kiss me on the nose and tell us all we are brave
but sometimes it’s hard to see when it’s so empty and the noise of the waves dashes us against the crystal pointed rocks where we’re snagged and torn like corners of cloth , but the flesh of our bodies will not lay there and rot
we’re to be eaten by some other creature. We’re to be devoured like we imbibe others.
And this is the way of this place.

So -  what’s the rush?

The time I first saw Picasso's Blind Man;
there was a loneliness I was unaware
that color, alone, could produce.
Picasso lost his friend & his home,
& I understood why
he mourned for years, in Cobalt blue.

My Mother has kept my Father's last name
for longer than she's known her own.
My father has forgotten who he is so
they hardly speak anymore.
She still carries his torch even knowing
that he may never come home.

I climb the mountains to forget how much
I hate this city.
I watch them from below when I just
want to admire true beauty.
From the bottom, so sacred & somber,
they resemble an elephant sleeping,
surrounded by wild flowers
ready to return home.

I'll take your breath in
my lungs,      have it ready for la petite mort

your many
little
deaths

exhale &giv;; you
la vie     again,

like children in church
you make me feel the dangers of
a simple whisper,     heads turn
slow burn

feel it hot on skin, deepening as the stare sets   in