A Burgeoning
Mother, cell of my cells – heart, core, nerve.
My exceptional son; my male nucleus.
Does immortality exist?
Yes, beyond your life span.
I have a secret that might cause me to fall.
What is this remarkable development?
As one matures, the complexities of love unfold
As rain on blossoms reveal their nature.
Yes, but perennials are predictable.
Except those deprived of nutrients.
My climate has been optimal, but my growth stunted.
Like an egg sloughed from the womb?
Though I look like an oak, inside I am a sycamore.
Shhh, sweet boy, your branches are gnarled. Rest.
Your cuttings can no longer shape me.
Plant yourself in my bosom, and I will keep you safe.
I love another now. His soil feeds me. He is like no other.
Your confessions are tortuous. Stop. I can make you grow.
Spring has come to my soul, mother.
Immortality will have to wait.

View from Above

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as tolerance
Ablaze in purifying glory.
Your tolerance laps at the legs
Of those poised to march.
Who are they?
The underpinning of consciousness.
The pillar of the repressed.
The girder weathered by piousness.
You burn their loves and lives
And walk away satisfied.
The world is pure again.

Santa Didn’t Come

One postage stamp Christmas,
Moiled flocking on the mountainside,
An Alligator crept among mortgaged houses,
And Old reliable wandered off to commit suicide.
Meanwhile the mermaid swimming
In the Pearl River of a comet,
Served soured milk and Spumoni
To two jealous sisters.
White manhood crapped on her coat
Which she wore like sharp hieroglyphics
scrawled on a sunflower.
The breast of man pressing against her own,
Her commodities violently stolen.