(Listening to Nicola Conte - Black Is The Graceful Veil)
The things we do to keep moving through this density without Losing our higher mind or grounding in something larger that’s Already made its way out of the Honeymoon phase for Life at This number of Earth-bound years calling a truce with the White flag topping us as it is; not how we’d like it to be.
A plant branching growth: encrusting fretful walls, Timid rocks and complicit...
The telephone is festively silent Apart from continuous screaming Inaudibly audible, only by me Its just like the voices The volume of no calls countable The lack of words that were spoken Sends such a clear message No Calls = lots of calls No merry Christmases Not a Happy New Year No I love you Dad Not an I love you David
Gifts given out No gifts received Christmas cards sent Better to give than receive Or at least so they say Festive hugs needed Not one hugs given Peace to all men Well,...
Distilled young sun off gray floaters. Dry shower through unstrewn touch,
the icelessness fell.
In season, boldiers of calzon dough beaten through a basedrum that folds into oversaturated heartwood at the tree hip. A scratching fur bumps out the glass in a drop of a leather nosegaurd as ethanol washed out in its melted rocks the tingling of a bruise.
Repassing the bee's tongue of blows from levee, 30 packed cotton balls brined in a bagged salt sea, left for residue...
Michael and I, two divine Heavenly beings The handsome male Archangel who teases my delicate femininity wings The morning glory Angel who roars when he sings Michael fights my earthly battles when my wings are tattered and dosed with a celestial mean As we both explored two parts of the world Among beautiful beings as my wings was sultry transformed
Such a charismatic soul brought this Angel to her knees As he embraced my wings, he thoroughly pleased My halo still remembers he instilled the lust of his needs Planted and sowed the elixir of...
Six years upon my chest, hidden from the white giant, clothed in red or green and seen again, again this time of year, threatened at children in supermarkets "He'll not come." A dumb false promise, I once knew from my Mother home, a threat that falls on numbed wounds. Soon, the day will be distant, reminded with insistence "You should be grateful, for this and that." Forget the aggression, the thrust berating, that made the 'stuff' worth nought worth saving.