Mente Mezcla

Fool me once, love and I wind up at the bottom of a glass. Fool me twice, and the conch shell's siren song is hard to ignore. Even a cold river would do, rock-lined pockets with the wolf's ghost looking on in haunting approval (because those who stray from the pack know the secret) But then... There is the go-on-living part, soul-chipped, another jagged break against fine sand. I can smell my nostril's salty burn On this return The ocean having already sold me her wares right before my toes first tread hot patches tide will never reach.

Forgive my words if they run away from me towards you. It has been awhile since I’ve written and containment isn’t an option.      (Usually the inspiration is some dissident:      distant melancholy pulling me,      strings, threads      to that play-space where I hammer-smoke verse, a mixed-bag blacksmith) I am not a bee keeper, nor hive queen. Have no patience for dewy netted hats, protective gloves, or giving directive, Besides Not all separation and order yields nectar, Not all togetherness stings. What I want is to stop waiting at airports for trains... To mark one lil lazydaisy valley my heart’s cornucopia, A newly forged instrument,      hybrid: flute, didgeridoo, sitar, and soku. Its lithe love songs tangled in my hair, like your hands.

Evergreen with envy, Lilacs perch, pastel-tin cloaked on a window sill Unaware of their own sweet, erotic pulp Fragrant and budding in turmoil Wishing a more cosmopolitan air To be less paschal, sexier… Lust’s sweaty manhunt flower Just like those red petals below, Those, right there, on that haughty bush! But lilacs boast no thorns

The Kachina dance-whispered in my ear, Ancestor news-radio style, steady-voiced commands you must take special care to hear My personal postal service… and through the cacophony, sights and sounds modern, She gushed, like freshly machete’d melons, “Wait for it, it’s coming.”