Desert blooms when rain's pass through-ed, the moment just before, renewed. Another could've never worked here, all or nothing, hell-high frontier. Dreams of flowers in the sand, walk through sand fields, hand in hand. Some say nothing, find him flawed, go out; outdone, outlived, outlawed. One man's whimsy, one mans' wander will this rain bring florals yonder? Through the years and in the creek beds floods the whimsy, pulls the threads.

Patience, darling, in the dark, mother’s planting fathers snark. Ancients line your rust and blood, placating family, built in mud. Growing, finding, feeling, tremor breaks the surface, sings in tenor. Am I in you? You, in me? Reaching roots, the family tree. Weeds will grow here, mind confusion, garden paths twist to occlusion. Where the wax steps call me upward; blood moon waning unobstructed. In our garden water wisely, trust your minds eye, timid, blindly; tiny gods in ground all ushered...

Full to the fucking brim with bees with wants and wishes with the heat of 8000 suns with oozing lava with questions with the eyes of the ravens from that forest we wandered with pulls and pushes with wills and wills and wills with villainous intent with stained butcher aprons with tiny futile forgotten gods with pebbles from the windy river with acupuncturist punctures' with bent forks and blunt knives with yearning with a deep desire to be alive before, again with rage with whimsy. Full to...