Zephyrus

sometimes you can see Jesus through the muddled words on misogyny and hyperbolic events correlating to hypothetical debates on biochemical warfare versus the  reverse prostitution we would wage on the heads of states and great nations, kings and presidents tumbling down after what in their mind is an apocalyptic nightmare we see diving Love.  The coastal marshlands snaking atrophy across the warming globe, pipe lines drill barren oil bellies—keep your politics out of my panties sir, your misguided attempt at establishing order is coming all over your face, pumped full of naked reality withering visibly at the groin.  We moons got the better end of the deal on coming, to terms with the former thoughts of male protection debases soul body blood and urine, Mother’s earth womb rendered clitoral mutilation and here beating your wife is a fashion statement, the importation of sex-slave workers. Rose wears a whistle around her neck for the children of Cambodia, all the Mothers who have come Holy before Her, radiant beauty beyond my limited frequency of vocabulary, ordinarily I feel prolific, but in terms of poetic communication my senses seem lacking, Sister Juana counting down the hours until Her resurrection, the new lashing for lackluster high beams down a brittle highway, pavement crumbling under rubber wheel and rebar trembling, Earth quakes from Her thighs and steams an eruption—interrupting my stark drowning in the Chesapeake Bay.  Geese are still returning on this cloudy day, honking up the Southern sun that follows closely on their trails, the wind dragging yellow off the trees to replace it with green bloomers turning upward to flash you the lean to fort in the forest, bouldering down the hill untied up, the great canyon fissure of land that wants to be refilled of water, she keeps tipping the plastic bottle to catch that one little drop at the bottom but she’s sinking, the silt dissolving under her draining feet feels like too obvious of an ending, the thoughts still trembling on the precipice of Whitmanian candor but lacking the will to leap felicitously off the stalwart mourner, silent morning ripening pale tomato in the steam.