when you’re blue, instead.
when you should take a nap.
Mooncats, when the compass rose
meets the revolution. will no one
say it outright?
They’re there, roadkill
I’m here killing streets
I’m The Hottest.
When The Devil lurks
and the universe repeats itself: bend us to you
We await.
Also, RENAISSANCE,
of course, of course, of course
on repeat of course, of course, of course
because, once again, disco,
Disco never died.
when she is one for whom we
write love letters long after she’s gone.
when you learn about foremilk and hindmilk.
when late-stage capitalism threatens to keep you
from home.
when the bleeding lingers.
when the deep is her sleep.
when i remembered the power of my own voice
When Friendly returns for another
look at the water flow and the joyous
wilderness is on tap for tonight,
when the Enlightenment is marshaled,
when the budgeting is finally done.
When there’s a baby in the window.
when it’s my wheel, it’s the war
god on the cusp / when it’s nextdoor to
the key, but what kind? a diary.
she warned, it’s the summer of mistakes
and the clock says ocean, so I need a nap
backed by a field of rainbow:
i was made for love
when it’s so many beings gone in the dark and more new ancestors permeating, when it’s always ‘you can’t wear a crown with your head down,’ when over here healing generations and hoe, YRU here? when it’s time for a red velvet radio redux methinks, children
when it’s on you like yes and the beat repossesses and remember when they sang about tender blender hearts? it me. ‘Hellow. . .’ through the vacuum, ‘buh-byee,’ from Felicia the blue-eyed cat. and another cat, and another; and yet again–– ‘doucement, chérie.’ Dive under.
… and where is that harmony? Sweet harmony is when the roaring continues uninterrupted over the gaps of shifting channels. linear time is a joke. when you order an iced honeybear at the halfwit wormhole and plan on the three levels of love-worn pages in the neighborhood-nearby future
When tears of a drowning pool and your other half wakes you up early to tell you ‘we’re going to war,’ after his own end-of-world dreams. Time for the after-party–invites out, sneakers in the mail, and a new set of clubs. . .
bardic bullion 