dove swept;

I haven’t slept.

And after the fact, I’m spinning and regretful,

like the tube sock soap bar—wielded, wove

and struck down to surface, landing like the

little dove.  Gets you numb after a minute.

And here we are right now:

she employs the cigarette with the pink stem.


Little beauty—off her jazzercise and yogic

quotes—isn’t this a chore?  Blow out and into

my fugue state;

you’ll be a fellow to the culling soon, too.

Lest you drop like the jackhammer,

swallow that familiar motif, & fill yourself with its rarity.


And while you, ooh, spill out all of that rose water,

release that smoke, let me pine over your utterances.

Figure I’d place my love here extemporaneously;

I’ll find the nook to place it in, nearer God: soon, too.

Locale is liminal when it comes to the heart,

stretched in everyone’s mind.


You do this and the thinking’s below you,

but I know your wonder.

You always said the pain was compulsory.

The suffering, though, that’s optional,

my little dove.

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January 8, 2024

“Locale is liminal when it comes to the heart/stretched in everyone’s mind.”

“You always said the pain was compulsory./The suffering, though, that’s optional.”

Ooof. So good. So much to explore in regards to the pain and suffering.