the Devil and God reside inside All

Reconsidering Handcuffs-

You're shouting so loud, you barely enjoy this broken thing.

You're a song that's never sung, is what I say.

You can only blame yourself.

It's hard to be the better man.

But should we stop, and take her with us, for all our time. Say hello to an old friend.

Not mine. She is sitting in the corner now, a little bleary with far away eyes.

Her ice cream cake lay discarded, an iceberg of cookie and cake
in a creamy oreo sea.

I thought about the weekend, and her slinky red dress, and the way she
flipped her bangs and
blinked her eyes and
I lit the bubbler, finished my Sierra Mist and ice hint of triple sec,

thanked my hospitable hosts,
and rode home with Derek.

Maeve is my girl still, and I love her and her new rack. 20 pound bucket of organic matter please.

How about a garden in a cargo bike? Main Street frame<-=->a Pedicab minus loveseat. That's heavy. How about worm delivery by bike? Complete with in-home worm (and/or garden) consultation and set-up, maintenance optional. Look for me out there.

You are what you Love

Olive trees and windmills in the town.
Strange powerful wind with names and faces too many to count.
Smelly ride north (El Jadida) 60dh. Please keep light and air flowing to keep clarity growing, give thanks for bus rides and vacations;
grilled fish moments usually only alive in wish given depth and weight free of time constraint.
Rather it is granted to contemplate, working thought into filament splice with heartstringlined motion of feelings that overwhelm the ways of men.
broken magnifying glasses, life refuse of the night bus high and driving, line the pavement.

Mm hmm I want to linger (on), mm hmm a little longer. Make me fried eggs though the day and let the humdrum cradle my mind into the dark for tonight will be the night that we begin to ease the plugs out of the dam. Precious souls are comforted to sleep; others find clarity in its absence ̶ the drug of the screen’s fakesenseofillingconnection;
some find comfort in themselves with back scraped by rocks shelves.
Just sail belly up to the clouds breath and pulse and seethe and loosen the flood gate and be, the vessel. The sand and wind and fog buffet, they infiltrate between thought and expression to the most dear scale space and plate.

Clear the scraps palm the rudder ̶ we can find the way back under behind maps a place built by thoughts at work cemented with power potential and poise of deepfeel.

(Can you tell me the way home?)