vanilla, myrrh, rose, clove, lime. palo santo. the magnetic swooning moon. his danburite, taking me to another room. talking about the pineal gland. the chess piece that moved by itself. asking me what my first super-natural experience was. selling tara. buying her peacock ore, tree branch, pyrite masterpiece, hanging close to the heart, opening, opening….she reminds me of the mirror. look without, look within. i cannot control a thing. but i am learning my value. physical temporary value. eternal spirit soaked value. standing naked beneath a warm rain. spending too much money in the grid game. cupcake wrists. honey lips. recovering from the spiraling fits, ignited by the immortals who conspire to initiate strange twists. justin re-birthing in my imagination. only way to see, is through his eyes. the only way to understand, is through his demise. amber liquid. cold glass. desire turns into flexibility on the mat. i cannot not be stopped. a spring cat, wrung out like a dirty dish rag. i like the way i work it, i got to bag this up. ujjayi breathing. twisting toward the ceiling. five children telling me what they like the most about the store. their little hands filled with pennies. his tourmaline grounding me before…lift off…pulled in to share. love your neighbor, not people, he stresses with flare. i am walking between worlds, half soul, half senses. seen and unseen. the waking dream acute, and sleeping beast on mute. pause. peace in the center of a topical storm. insomnia performing miracles. surrendering into what is. letting april live me, breathe me, and ride me to the shore. the beauty of not wanting more . timing and symmetry, an apple core. old language rotting. rigid boxes, dying. separation hurts. don’t split the whole. aquarian wind horse hooves riding indigo waves know. feelings displayed like dead butterflies, after the fact. who cares, once the essence has left. sentences stack like bread slices in a plastic bag. give it to the homeless, because you don’t need all that. home, a shell on the back. aries new moon a virile stag. bleeding lunar death at night. i love michelle bloom, she writes. the deep roots of stars on our breath. trusting the lust of appropriate haste. the absurd, wiggling out from the liver, like cinnamon paste.