Sit!
Ah, martinette:
For your whip–smart crack–of–the–heels:
Well done. Here’s a pet.
And, Black, you hussy:
 with your delinquent, rebellious, impertinent leer
  for a pet without praise:
Very well.

Only when we are grown up
do we understand our innocence
is as beautiful as our savvy;
we leave that part out.

Hard to explain this blubbering
’mid forest woods
near silvery stream
tugged along
by black and blonde
dogs
hunting twixt moonbeams

It's hard to carry a tune
Some, singing from their youth,
 seem naturally talented
We are such picky receivers
Yet, what a delight when some song
 pushes our buttons
 over and over again
 playing ourselves
 back to ourselves
Winds up in a mystical collection
Yet no way to share with another
 the depth of its echoes through us
 the hidden–spot tickle of its touch
Agony unshared
A dread to share
As like it falls on deaf ears
 the horror of triggers missing in another
 the tip–top registers of our soul
And this some polished piece of painstaking production
How much more terrifying
 when we play ourselves
I trip along as the band plays on
 I might look queer, but I'm certain
 no one holds a candle to my music

First, the finding of the cloth:
 something to cling to
Then, the pulling, wondering:
 what will it lead to?
Then, an acceptance of its never–end
 and the assured fashioning
 clothes from its threads

Once sad refrain of acquiescence
Then rebellious No and licentious Yes
I cannot say which one’s correct
and am glad to have had my say of it

No. Peas will not replace
this strange desire to add capers
to my already quite exotic Indian stew
God, do I have to go over this
 with myself again?
And Live
Get that which I happen to want?
There even ain’t no shame in it, for shame!
Jeez, just go to the grocery store where
 they have a whole shelf of them — 2 kinds
And don’t wait for tomorrow’s regular
 beautiful shopping; the desire is for them now
And shit if this ain’t the first day
 of spring and bare feet
 and the children out playing
 and Terra out happy despite
 a benign cancer near her stomach bulging
  and red in her eye
 and joy to hear the birds chirp along
 to Flaming Lips’ Fight Test
 as Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
As I still feel bad for not working
 and wonder when I will give it up
 like it’s inevitable
Marching past the children echoing Yoshimi’s
 battle cry, their young souls
 shaming my reluctance to fully embrace
 my capers for all I know
Past the teenagers hanging out
 fresh in courage, laughing smiles
 at one another as they embrace
 awkward, vulnerable, vibrant youth
I taste one
 salty; almost grimmacingly bitter
How many capers? How many capers?
1, 2, 3
Fuck it. Stop counting. Keep going.
My intuition will tell me
And if I don’t just cover it with ’em
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf.
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf?
Add black pepper and a crush of bay leaf.
OK.
You will need a smidge more rice.
Really. OK.

I load up my plate up
hear my roommate in his bedroom
loitering, lounging, laughing with his fiancée
as I go out to witness the dusk of a beautiful day
and the slightest dusting of spring
 tears have anointed my table
I wipe the seat and as I eat
 any evidence of wet is vapors
And, no, those capers are not bitter tasting
 they fit perfect, well: smashing
and, hmm, maybe not enough rice
 ah, no, just just enough
I needn’t have thought