you winsome, you lose some // there you go, Avarice // wit & whim

Jas{mine blooms on the vine. Citrus 

in the break of heat. You shower of

sweat in the evenings. Cold. Durian 

bracelets across the compost. Sticky, humid

seeds. Cold fruit, cold spoons, cold ice. I am your jackfruit; I am your 

apple. Limoncello liqueur eager-spilled, gleaming lips & hips & 

chests. 

You trail glacial across the back; stain covers in a friend’s bed. Ah, 

you winsome, you lose some. Watch me: knit this stark crochet of gangly, 

tree-limbs in your luminescent mind. Here – your hands 

– in your mind.  In magnesium. // It is

a venture into slipstream Summer

(oh, there you go, Avarice, chasin “could 

you find me”s to reincarnation. Would you find me,

knockin on your doors? Plato’s pleonexia – ho! 

You’re pulsing. Plum-plump & living. Shake this poet) 

out of / the dead / moon’s jaw,

where Jasmine blooms on the vine. Citrus in the break 

of fever. You’re hidden through 

speech, thin & floating as incense. 

Baked in wit & whim. Spelunking in golden. & by the way, 

my Mouth too is filled with your womb; I too am 

scalped & anonymous. But you’re clinging to the old tech 

of change. To (oppose a thing is to sequester it, keep it 

alive but starve it so) press your rugged fantastical (Epistemology: if I ventured 

gladsome, here, into that slipstream, would I scrimp and tight-fist

this stuff of glue? This could not still magnetize these shards. Oh mine

heart, I am prone to galvanize, to deep-winter isolate from lovely rust and fusion sponta-

neity. No welding. No connection. The mud of the real coats with iron in my soul; the skin-to-

skin idealists) have–(come home: the orchids are bowed with dew with rapture)ing — as who would 

admit they have not been driven mad by the shackles of grief or love?  Who among us 

does not know an anarchic heart, heart 

whose seasons do not ligature to those of Earth? Our love is 

fathomless; thus too is our grief and mortality (and so no god

could love like me). What is 

the point to catalyze change (as licorice; by all accounts, a luscious lick)? When you

(the morning is so ripe 

with the changing heart I hazy 

heart-beat “Oh, you )

are dashed through, dashed through what could be another foundered haling of 

detritus to gawp & gum up the derrick of our souls, what could be another 

(ah, you

are so ripe with 

every whim-wham I gam up.) (But 

Darling,) do you

see me? Oh, }mine, do you see me?”