What I am saying is.
Ordinary blues. Definitions. I often find myself giving attention to Latin roots, as a way of going beyond language to whatever first opened when we started opening our mouths.
Imagine fucking happily in late-stage patriarchy! Sincere prayers and the men who make them. After breakfast and chores I ask if we can share a shower and we do and we kiss a little and she jerks me off, moving things along, both of us playing at being content with what the marriage came to.
Whacking goldenrod. We carry stones to the rear of the property, a pile of them to be washed by rain.
Your intentions matter but not the way you think.
Think of those shepherds facing starlit skies - the semen-colored stream of the Milky Way gleaming - and ending up with a single Father God to rule all other gods.
Money problems, monkey problems.
The pressure I used to associate with Valentine's Day. A single gold leaf spirals down in fine mist.
The dead mice go into a paper bag and are tossed onto the compost where later crows gather, winking and nodding at me, like brothers knowing the deal is bad but determined to go down without whining.
Fucking Reagan genes.
Sometimes walking up and down Main Street we hold hands briefly, like nodding in the direction of what gathered us once, then letting go in order to make our way in the darkness better.
I used to read cookbooks in bed, which amused her, made me attractive somehow, in ways I still don't understand.
Machinery, mockery, manfully.
Come unto me over the miles, Love, that my last death might not be losing you in the clouds of leaving what is dearest for love.