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Hyacinth Morning

The purple sent

your craving

all the way over

to me

 

mountains be damned.

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Sunday’s Apothecary

In the morning I am

the morning I am the gentle 

rare lately, this time

early morning Sunday

mornings grey

with seagulls.

 

In other news, I believe 

I am falling in

love.

the missing girl lover in Oz

The girl lover was missing in Oz all that green in the city and winding yellow roads but who was missing the girl was missing a piece has been cut out–a piece has been cut out and I crave and curl around her absence, a cat, yawn and meow. My mother never let me have a cat–too much fur, too much to clean up, the stink of litter of box of pussy, no pussy cats allowed she actually said she HATED cats. A strong sword the word and I do imagine things a girl lover, a woman of bright oranges, carrying on across the field a red wagon and blue gingham. I will play for her the ukelele. I just love the sound of the word ukelele. The looping of e’s and l’s in cursive, a fading art. Oh and yes a girl lover. It has always been this, craving sugar sugar spills, hard fingers then flexion, sweet licking tongue kitty lap the milk.

Free Dorothy and all her girl lovers, the lion in drag.

Algae for You

Oh Woman

I am growing toward

the light the love I am

growing into

an ocean 

of green.

Green House

Sugar spills

from orchids

Why the Emerald City?

Rainy hilltops, an insect-eyed green-windowed library that flashes diamond the city in rare sunlight. Poetry, Riot Grrrl vestiges, revolution.

scratching my name in the moss on the underbelly of rocks just to get close, get close to you.

Green as you I came here

to green

with you.

Commitment to Many Loves

Listen. Protect solitude

from my own compulsion to fill it

with affectionate others. Do not neglect

the Scorpionic.

Keep fin-kicking toward love away

from fear.

Slow down. Be not bee

be still.

Give and receive love, generous.

Honor silence the rhythms

Silence. 

The spaces between. Honor

Liminal. Read books Write books

Love. Do not get lost in the shells

of things. Dwell in the hot sticky 

center. Punctuate my actions

with heartbeat. Be skin. Read

the landscape 

with my skin.

 

 

 

 

In the deepest benthic ocean

Let us not pathologize ourselves.

Let us be narwhals

instead.

Relationships, everything.

Collect the fragments in the notebook.

Follow the end piece the red furry ball of yarn yawn wide the cavern of mouth, this–it will lead you around the bends and turns. Allow colors. Yours.

What is Arctic? What is atomic?

Add storms, all kinds.

Confabulate. Valence. Redact.

Things accrue.

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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