Sauerkraut (4)

i’ve got turned up cabbages

and a torn out harvest

protruding from my center

a place where i go to touch, sometimes

they hold me there,

trying to revitalized my dead body

the bareness of my empty

seemed like ghost had came by now

and got the best of my loveless kisses

choruses out in screams, and hair burnt white

touching me smooth,

stroking me deep

Devil makes a mean pot roast

wholesome with his full foot

i choked it down into swallows

i make me good and full

(it rains here sometimes, in autumn)

and i catch, with big wide open hands,

all my teardrops

careful not to drown

in puddles of my quick fear

careful not to land in the pit of broken leaves

that are soon to frost over

i can’t tell if the rain is clear,

or blue

and if i am still here

if i bellow out my destitute

will it diminish into depths

of sour tongues, coated over

with the sweet mornings of may

(Pastor dressed up on Easter Sunday)

i sat, and let the tears patter down

on the rooftops of my head

(i am coupled whispers)

the taste on dangerous lips

touching me smooth,

stroking me deep,

i am quiet, and still

cold and bitter

there are waves crashin’

sendin’ rivers turnin’

and oceans swingin’ into gulfs

where i lay my naked babies

in the water of an old song

easily lost in submergence

i admire their lifelessness- (in adoration)

i am quiet and still

cold, stark, and bitter

it’s the brink of dusk

harvest time has come