Ode to My Poopy Poetry.

Please note:
All my poetry

(subsequent to the mass
that has been written
here, in this blog,
over the enduring years,

at least
until I find
a relatively
easy way
to move all
my former poetry)

has been relegated
to another blog,

Flush of the Mindpot,

in the quite-fuckin’-likely feeble

to compartmentalize,
and express
my messed-up head-space

in a more digestible
to you
as well as



Transitory Conjuring.

Invoke thee. Summon
this dark,

lively and lovely damsel slithering
her finger forward,
towards her, in tandem
with fixed

and quasi-submissive eye contact
into the bullseye
of my overgrown, weed-infested
field of visions,


you towards her so seductively,
as if this bond
could work, as if this twisted

dream (half sun,
half moon, half-baked, fifty fucking percent
beneath elegantly shimmering,

reflected light) you spin
in your mind
could inspire much-needed growth, shake
you right out of the ant farm

and onto a path
that you’ve never known: one that leads

closer to your alien,
and powerful center

of self

and lures
you into expression,
to bring it out.


Always, forever,
you cut

the cord or provoked
someone to do

it for you. When do you remember riding
it all to the natural end? This cycle,
that’s your challenge. Test
the limits of your endurance.

She was right,
you know, back
then, when she said, “you always walk

away.” And you have, you did,
but look at yourself: is that truly who
you are anymore?

You must concede
that if you’ve developed
anything in the midst
of the mess

that is this wretched
context, its a rockhard spirit imbued
and fueled
by stubbornness.

Stop being this.

The one
negative one:

a problem seeking
solution, aching
for zero.

More awaits.
Revelation of addition.

You have work to do,

Sex, Love & Starborne Seeds.

Let me
mash and smear my lips
against your soft

pair, gliding down, so thorough,
hands ascertaining form
like the skilled blind:

an assist
for the exploratory tongue trek
down your neck
and breasts, fearlessly entering

the vice
at the heart
of your inner thighs,

where I dig,
and wiggle
till I see your light.

Let me bury me in you.

Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.

of that single scene
behind me, allow

me to penetrate
you viciously, enact the rhythm

calling to me,
permit entrance

to your deep, dark, enlivening
inside, where I at once
hide and let
the consequential bliss rise
as I ride the wave,

me in the safety
of us,

the cradle of the bond,

now, finally one.
Not just
is it what I’ve always

wanted, but I suspect, it’s all
I have, will or would

to start this journey.

You are all I love,
who I want,
all I need:

a long-awaited season
for a hopeless starborne seed:

unless you or circumstance
to metaphorically fuck me
and leave

me empty and wanting.

Between Green and Violet.

Awareness: the core,
the white light
of the soul, the observer,
the witness, my third
person perspective:

my pineal gland:
in spirit,
if nothing more.


Consciousness: the prism
of awareness,
breaking that white light
of the soul

into: moods, states,
psychic spectra

within which state-specific,
and consequential identities
are forged.



Puzzle pieces
broken, dissociated,
beneath, through: a light,

each psychic island
expressed, manifest
in wildly, widely
varying intensities,

constantly shifting,

And where along
this continuum



Somewhere between green
and violet,

according to her,
my Jungian Sophia,
my Native American
Spider Woman,
Spider Grandmother,

but not quite blue:

so either
cyan or indigo.

Show me the spectrum,
blessed alien:
explain classification issues.

Her body light
is green,

so maybe we resonate,
share a station,

or maybe I’m a mix
of purple and red,
a body light of indigo,
a step away
from violet,

from wrapping
up this work,
the end of this road
of the soul,

my next
turn destined to set
my future precedent,
a significant step

the ongoing
World Line of my soul.

Wish that Nimi
would let me know.

So long
here, wondering,
should I just wait
and stay

here, and if not, my Teacher,
where should this
confusing-shade-of blue,


fucking go?

Never will I have faith
again: trust
is kaput.

Not at all your fault.

In any case, m’lady
I could use
the input.