This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.

A holy demure had risen
from the thoughtless exposure
that crumbled under her heels
each crux up Olympus;
And I, forever faithful,
belaying her ascent, unfounded,
delaying my own, grounded as
her head breached the clouds,
A fairytale if not for the landslide
burying me under stone proof
of her unfathomable scale
out of my rope-burned hands
that only God can measure.

It seems like just yesterday when we'd give our affection away without a second thought. If they said they wanted it, we believed them. We thought, "if they're willing to ask for someone's heart--something so precious and complex that it needs constant tending--why would they do anything but cherish it?"

As it is, we do anything but nurture one another. If our hearts are gardens--each own's blossoming with combinations of colors and fragrances too beautiful to be anything but unique--then our minds are corporate oil drillers, buying up land with no greater intent than to turn profit. We invest in a lush plot only to **** the land--**** it dry of a natural nectar we cannot ourselves produce--and move on to a new plot of untouched, fertile soil: another new, untapped resource for our consumption.

What became of the gardens you destroyed? Are they as barren as the day you left them? Are they overgrown with weeds in pathetic attempt at recreating that former glory? Or have you never revisited the land that you once claimed, purchased, and called your own?

You know, you were beautiful once too; I can see it under the scars. I wonder who destroyed your garden, who drilled through your crust--relentlessly, mercilessly--until your soul gave and bubbled up to their hands for the taking. That's what brought you to drilling, after all. You're not consuming, you're replacing. You're trying to regrow.

But flowers don't spring from oil. You need a gardener to tend to your tarnished land. Yes, even as your surface gets greener, your well will be dry; give it time. Oil is born from seasons--generations--of an evolving land. With your gardener by your side, you'll get there. Trust them. Cherish them. And, above all, be their gardener in return.

Our kiss is my
vulnerable bait and
we, worms on hooks
of entangled lines
writhe in pain with
tension tightening;
To pull us apart is to
lose your lure
us back together,
till no fish believes
our unnatural jig.

"Out of the blue,"
he thought, hit on the head
with effects from the sky.
A pleasant apocalypse
balanced above the ground
where his attention lied,
Digging for secrets
yet ignoring the treasures,
burying himself alive,
Looking up too late
but just in time for me
to be free to fly.

Violets rage
with indigo pulses
beneath the shadows
of your parents' porch;
Spitting purple, but
soaking the rainbow
from whatever light
granted by the sun.

Rose by any other name
sprouting in the city,
does not sell as sweet --
A dandelion plucked
from Midwestern soot,
blown to the wind, assumed
Out-shown by gardens
of the proven perennial
(once Violet, Lily, or Daisy)
Waiting on bated baby's breath
to blossom beyond marigold,
an undiscovered exotic
For this concrete jungle.