A poem about my friends



Silence. That sound is a lover of the wind

breathes essence of fire

tadpool of the Earth

turns rain into sapphire seas

makes emperors of sacrarium suns.

Every sense serves some sort of scope

into the parameter of a flesh exhaled

from soot to cinder enmeshed as ashes.

The presence of the present spoke in

sacraments mapped beneath organized crime

while the fabricated archetypes speak in counterfeit algorithms.

Blessed BE those who ejaculate oil slick seas

wear skeletons as trees that father temples of words

as trees weep their leaves

worlding spilled blood vanillin

tombs where the lies have been buried.






There are the bees.

One BEE. The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat to

all creatures that sing of poetry, philosophy and harmony.

The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat to defeat

those that seek containment of the colonies.

She seeks to pollinate those who know

align alliances with solar eclipses,

make prayers with the sphinxes

cycle the Earth to the womb

of a new moon, that turn rivers red

with a new menstrual flow

of a free world where the unarmed do not get shot.

Culture is the sum of human behavior.

Expect resistance. Our wings hum insistence that intends

to swarm on the current nature of this existence.

Need I mention democracy, idiocracy, bureaucracy

unconscious pornography. You probably already heard

that I preach against dichotomy.

You are here. You are listening to this because you have been chosen.

Your eyes speak in flowers with blood ambrosian.

The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat synchronized

with the beating 528 frequency of the galaxy




pollinates the few to bloom many

new wombs for an old and tired universe.

Flowers fit fertile in the arteries of artillery

they take over cities and speak among streets.

So please

those pollinated

please make love and procreate.

What is to BE must BE created

as a BEE resting between the indents of our palms

we have psalms written on the scriptures of our fingerprints

we have the son of suns encrypted beneath fingernails

have I hit the nail on the head yet right below the halo

made up of dandelion wishes and sapphire stigmatas.

It is up to the flowers that breath the essence of the beat.




Chaos BE the void at the BEginning of creations.

Here the stars smell of sulfur and blink butterflies

with scorched wings on a memento

of monopolization disguised with sunrise.

Man, the invasive species inflows leeches on colonization

unknowing when the BEES die, as do they

machines cannot mimic the mastery of her pollination.

Spread from seed to see

remind the ones who know and awake the absentee.

We all must first grow from a fragile germination

interweave rhyme and reason for lilac liberation.


When she stings, she dies

crucified to supply a name for the future. New life.

New limbs for the souls that harbor in the trees

the unwise decay and discolor, descend with the leaves.

So that we can rise. We are the BEES.

Our blood burns as fire, breathes between every crevice

simmers in sweet honey shivers.




Let it BE.

The Queen BEE breathes the power of BEing.

She is them. She is you. She is me.

The BEE knows and the BEES can see

The BEES work to harbor the hive and survive

death, the bowing goddess shapeshifting

from a wearied Winter into a suitor of Spring.  

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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