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lonely is

the moon on tuesdays

alone is

earth’s burning star

lonely is

the kale in her salad

alone is


lonely is

the muscle among organs

alone is

the harpsichord




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(Sunrise over Montana Bitteroot Pastures)

sunrise-over-bitterroot-mountains-montana-toddtaylorsoft butter cup



gently, gently


my soul

let all your senses

come to life

as you breathe in

Holy Ghost

lonely corner



The cement is dusted, crusted with dead plants. Mutely they speak of life, of beauty, of decay. Dust we are. To dust we return. I push the sage door openly softly. I behold an opulent spider’s empire: swinging silk and bulging blood. The sensual sheika seduces innocents flies:forever ensnared. Never to flee, to fly again. Soft pink shelters death. Lady killers dream and die. Blue veined matriarch orchestrated her offspring: some she will devour, some will devour her.

A stale wind seeps through my skin. It lands on my tongue, ancient and frigid: hidden caverns and forgotten sepulchers. This sepulcher is stocked with powdered life and buried beans for some distant disaster. Or perhaps they will aid a dated god in his quest for paradise. Milk should flow richly, creamy not huddle ashamed.

This god is buried to buy bodies. Skinned, carved, devoured. Somehow-still alive? Torn by rusted staples and clumsy nails. Suffocated under running stone. Festooned with cotton candy. Mourned only by falling leaves. Trees ripped from rich earth and deep water shed their covering to cry. Left alone to drink stone. Darkness to devour their emerald eyes.

Deranged. Splinter decay. Rage ice. Shards splatter like tears.

They melt down



into cement dust.