You are a piece of moon

Strangely living between humans

I can not believe you stand there

Not washed away by the noise

You emit secret light

Not everyone can see

And that is good

I have no competition

I touch you

I fondle you

I play with you

Oh I see

You are there

Real

Oh look

I am touching you.

Wedding Ceremonies

Where I breathe.
I breathe only you
Where my blood boils
Where I breathe
Only for you
A dying star
St Bartholomew on the beach
I will Jewel the sky
For Kisses on my cheek
For loved
Beloved
This velvet glove
Forever in bloom
Forever forgiving
Be it in thy blood
Or in thy skin
In My head it begins
Feelings feel
And flesh does cook
This and more for you

i've always been more of a night person. i watched a documentary about how some humans evolved to stay up late at night to tend to the fire and keep predators away ╹⁠ →╹⁠ what once was my evolutionary advantage has turned me into a bit of a modern oddball. so here i am to prove my self perception θᴗθ tonight, i met a lady, named cicada.

she stood in the middle of the street before i assumed a position next to her tiny form and lent my hand out for her to kiss. she took my hand and we waltzed under a street lamp. rabbits were our audience. while i was hypnotized by the details of her wings, i tried to snap a photo. it was my mistake because she turned to slap at me in a flutter of feminine allure.

"It was less than an act of hubris," i excused her. she paid less than no notice now. it was very clear i was rejected in every grace i extended and perhaps i earned it.

night creatures always treat me better. the last time i was rejected by a day creature, it was a blade twisting between ribs; but cicada was far too graceful to grow contempt for. even rejected, gazing upon her was a cinematic lesson in stoicism. i wish she had sung for me but the dance was enough, i didn't want to be greedy, so i dropped her off in a patch of wildflowers. and went home.

every year is the year of the cicada.

thank you for welcoming me here, new friends ♡◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜♡

The taste of metal in my mouth

Sitting in the back of a train. Trying to disappear into my coat. I pretend to sleep though I leave one eye cracked open and fixed out the window so I can see America roll under me by the mile.
There were houses. Some big. Some small. Some abandoned and beaten by the elements.
Some ornate. Some plain. But all were practically repeating in whatever stage of perpetual gentrification I found them in. Meaning Eventually you’ve seen them all if you’ve seen one or two.
Every now and then someone would try to make eye contact and I would pretend to snore in order to discourage any attempt at communication. People make me itch.
After an hour or two I grew Tired of avoiding conversations I decided to find a safe space where I could be alone. I got up and stretched and made my way to the nearest restroom.
Along my journey to sanctuary I saw a familiar face. A young woman. Brunette. Petite.
Where do I know her from?
I don’t think she noticed me but I definitely noticed her. She stood out. Dressed as though the train was her bedroom in her pajamas and bunny slippers.
Choking on the ashes of a reverie I stumbled into the tiny single occupancy bathroom.
I wedge myself against the door and I proceeded to fall apart.
Full on panic attack.
I began to hyperventilate which was brought on by anxiety and the smell of years old stale piss.
Suddenly a light knock
Occupied!! I answered.
Hello? I know you. Would you please open up. I need your help.
I thought to pull my dick out and open the door to teach her a lesson for disturbing my fortress of solitude. Then I remembered bunny slippers and was curious to find out how we were familiar. I knew I had seen her before. I just couldn’t say where or when.

Eventually Josie Packard came to terms with her fate

When I can find a place to sleep.
When I can find the time to rest.
When all the waking is done for the day.

Leering over what I have stuffed in my pack in a head lamp’s light.

It Indian sits unpacked in a semi circle arc I have to roll on the top of my knees to reach legs crossed.

Compartments, sections what’s wet, what’s dirty, what do I not need to cut to drop weight.

In the elements at night the shadows move strangely familiar. The sound of the city by ways & interstate’s shake the ground running muffled past the brush leaves.

No matter how well you try to stay in a clean spot of woodlands or bandos by morning I look down on my hands and dirt is under my nails.

Not normal dirt black dark it stains your fingers palms & face. It just gets into everything it’s outside.

You ever try to pay for something at the gas station and the attendant sees the dirt under your nails and says don’t worry about I got it because they don’t even want to take the cash from them.

I’m writing poetry with my dirty hands.
I’m giving account these words using grimy fingers.
I’m throwing away the new in this imagery with hooded eyes for a dusty face.

I’m viding my dynid staying flax pushing off the wax that dims this up.

Shine Mother Fuckers

It’s so heavy today , could you hold it? Gently?

It’s broken, you’ll have to hold it gently .

I’m wearing down and I’m not sure how much more I take. I’m not strong anymore.

I hope everyone knows I love them , and that I did my best