I am sequestered, seeking nothing but to ease the tightness that impacts

the vibrato in my gut so that I no longer hymnal myself to sleep.

Trial has brought me to ravage my own surroundings for superfluous pleasure

and I begin in the garden. It is inept to assume that anything good and viable

is harvested in any garden.  Slight as it may seem the presumption

is a fable of deceit.  I begin in the the garden and I provoke the land
to unearth itself.  Leaving behind the weeds to spread their nature
and prove they are worthy to blazon the land just as the redwoods.

The neighbors wonder if I am landscaping. I can tell they are eager
for the outcome of the tender hands’, soft sweet, diligence to a labor
of parabolic origin.  I excite myself, showing them that nothing of what I have reaped
will be sown, not here, not in this garden.  I presume the disappointment
on their faces.  Thousands of seedlings dug up to barren a fertile land.  

The earth is crying and so am I.  Crying at what in disposition I have become.

Crying at how trial, has led me to destruction.  The roots sprawl themselves
above the soil and hurt to be buried, ladening themselves so that they may sink
back beneath but it is a tiresome and disappointing plight.  Heavy is me, that
took to the earth my aggressions but like a momentous tornado I am dissolved
into my dismantlement.  With no proper tools I have been absolved to have taken
up my task by hand willed, alone, to plow through the days.

Had the days of Eden been as disastrous, perhaps fate would eventually
be in my favor.  Had she taken the land, as I, in spite and purpose
rather than through insidious inception, perhaps a serpent would
have been too frightened to lay beside her and offer respite
from the perfections of her garden.  Had she usurped the snake
in motive, perhaps she            would have tempted him,       or driven him away. 

I take in that I am sin, original, and continue in my burden. 

I am Eve, here in this garden, stripping away its chance to undermine my authority.

There is hurt, then there is grief, and there is no manna from heaven to exodus me of
my longing for a place my eyes have never wrought but, I will not
allow my opportunity in Eden to be seized from me,

not by serpent, not by eagle, not by the sparrow that lurks from a distance.

I, will seize it myself.

Off The Coast Of Los Angeles The Sunsets’ in The West

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets we are all small and tainted

We are all shadowed under the moon drawing the tides drawing the earth

Drawing the floor of the sea and drawing the the people small and tainted

To the overcast of waters that will drown out the sand crab’s glimmering blue paths back into the depths. That we have all become so accustomed to

while standing on sand on shells on shores

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets we are all small and tainted

And sometimes weeping from a place that is bolstered through beauty

From a place we’ve discovered through dreams and drawings, through

Artists and their strokes of delicacy, that they imagined was real,

Realer than the real thing until we stand before the married pink and blue and blush skies

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets we are all small and tainted

Under colors that bleed together that mesh together that merge together

That are colored so brightly that it is impossible to believe that soon the cast

Of black will make meek the purpled pink and blued oranges of the atmospheres

Washing away with a dark stain the loveliness that lived since dawn

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets we are all small and tainted

And he is awaiting the disappearance of the sun, hoping that in this evening

It will morph the skies and small all the tainted inhabitants waiting to see

The changes that are to soon occur.  That with the encamping of darkness

Into the once bright sky he himself will absorb the nature that is wiped away

Women that are wolves howl at the night sky and they await the excitement of dusk

Those women have scathed the heart of this young man who seemed to only

Be hunted and preyed by women who devour men at dawn and howl at the moon

When the night sky has reprieved its position above their feed. His heart, unable to

Withstand the hurt any longer, hoping the moon can pull him to his axis

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets Women have drawn on their faces and decided to transforms their wants through will and lower their tops

And have changed out of the soaked bottoms worn lazily and

Without harassment on beaches that they wouldn’t dare wear on streets

After the sun has retreated itself from its morning duties of darkening skin

And hoping not to leave lines on the plump and oiled bodies

After women have performed docility all day

and pretended to beckon to men since dawn, at night

In Los Angles the women are under the shade and out of the kelped seas,

Perfect. And the men think that maybe

They have been perfected for their arousal

In Los Angeles in the deepest hours the women take the night

The women scorn the men and swat at their advances

The women shoo away the weak and spineless with feelings numbed

With topical anesthetics and after taking needles to the face

And smelling their own burnt flesh under fraxel lasers a man’s 

Grimacing touch feels like a bone worth breaking not riding

Or enticing, so the women perfect and prettied in Los Angeles

Break the bones of men and check for cracked nails

And dirtied nail beds afterwards

How can women be so cruel with intentions as salted as the sea to which he stands before

How can women muster their desires and passions, into hate and lashings that

Pain those insisted on never have being pained and never having expected pain

How can women break a jewel, a rock, a cement brick packed tight in standards

Without a flinch or a fuss or remorse for their actions howling at the moon and cackling at man

A man, broken, staring at the sea is of no use to the world and there is no use

Of a man who stares and stares and can not motion himself to move

Away from the frights of women that have devoured him into manic

and return to the stature of Zeus waiting to strike lightening again

While Instead he waits, and awaits at the pillow of the sea in cushion to be struck

And to his own advantage the sea has spoken as the clouds glide across the horizon

And they are urging him beckoning him summoning him to move

To free himself from the hurt of the women who decide to step out of servitude

And to arm themselves in liberation.  Move away from the heartache caused by women

That have discovered their own righteousness and leverage themselves above the world

Urging him to look again to the women meek as clouds filled with airy mists

That glide across the sky with no control of their movements, motioned

By revolutions and winds rather than their own free will, return to the women

That have not learned their worth

and that still share sentiment

with the Power of the structure

that places howling growling women as an anomaly

Run away from Los Angeles and the women that wipe their faces clean off when the sun arrives again from the east

Off the coast of Los Angeles when the sun sets we are all small and tainted

And humbled and heightened in senses but droned in inspiration too insipid to

Compare to the natural vastness of the bleeding hues that set the backdrop of

An earth worth the bane and the heartache.  In Los Angeles the women are wolves

And the small and tainted men have no better resolve than to cry to the shore at the seas at sunset and return to the small specs of women that feed and foster their insecurities

And leave leave just as the wash on the shore turns into mist

Leave the women of misandry to the men who enjoy being devoured