sunday poetics

Darned sad dandy in and out of sleep damned by the lack but not needing it, not wanting it, too heavy, too jealous and sorry and scared of deceit, plain.

Fanned down and up, brain sorrow for separation, change, being rooted in expectation, exceptional levels of thought and desire are what make me me.

Be, boastful, be bored, waver outside and in between satisfaction to hatred, contentment to disgust, naked in a rustic card game of sexualized faces baring our nipples to mean a level of clandestine friendship sought after for ever and discovered in pairs and homogenized suits.

The macabre drama unfolds.

Incestuous infatuations are more comfortable so we fuse and depart achieving something that appears more successful but it’s a farce damned if we do, damned if we don’t, kicked out for drawing pictorial representations of our love on your thighs, nose, and forehead.

Circle marks the spot.

On to the street, out upon the land is where we are exiled to find wet shelter, dusty habitat but that’s okay, transience is a mental blessing, you can’t wage wars—be entrenched in them—if your letting the leaves be your guide, the rocks be your bed.

We hadn’t asked for lion roars.

They came to us, through us, because we were “good people” kharma believers and achievers licking mango and avocado stones until licked clean because when we open our eyes we see each peeling layer, locking and freeing the inside parts to render a hard fast conviction.

I took the weathered lines to mean an attainable peace.

capping off the house hunt

It is Sunday and Frank will be our new landlord. He told us we can iron our Levi’s on the ironing board attached to the wall in the kitchen when we go out on fancier dates. The hot tub, like a boundless warm well, is for us to soak in, too. Just as long as five naked girls aren’t found getting wrinkly in the mid-night hours. He is older, forgetful, but remembers his states at our age; oblivious to bank burnings while wandering, too drunk, down Sabado Tarde, unregulated, feeling free. It was back in the ‘70s but he remembers the feeling of being so obliterated and forgetting whole moments, whole affairs. Avocado and orange fruit—what’s its name, again—parenthesis the property while the caged lions down trapped at the zoo roar like roosters in the morning. Marking time, swiftly sifting away in each roll of the bike tire and link traveled. Frank tossed us the keys without questioning trust or referencing credit banks to ensure our capital value. He liked Danni and Rachel’s emphases in ecology and zoology and he told us about the time his wife and him scuba dived off those shores—right out there on that coastline—where she took an abalone and stuck it right to her chest. We smiled surely, looking at the walls, sensing the glove fit. On Fourth of July there would be no need to fight crowds or darned traffic because we’ll see the fireworks straight from our deck with gem view. Sometimes the past tenants would ask him down there for a gin and tonic. It’d be a neighborly joy, we envisaged. Santa Inez St. One Hundred and Seven is where we’d love to be. You can move in tomorrow.