Hey people, I hope you're doing beautifully. I have been--
writing quite a bit more than I really ever have before,
for the past couple months, esp. the last couple weeks.
However, in the wake of this creative outburst, I've been sleeping on the polishing that goes into what comes out--a bit too much basking in the sunlight, if you will (I did). Also my computer and internet availability have been trying (and failing).
But, without further ado, I bring to you three new works on the 'Other Works' tab,
and this post--written at a Seattle Public Library computer as time is quickly expiring, but the poetic meat of which was written by candlelight on my back porch in San Antonio the early morning of New Years Evening (yes it has been a while indeed):

~I called; you stalled,
                                       then told me to come over--
for not too long—I played some songs by a band you didn't know,
and you with cards and some glass shards to shine a shadow show.
You made some tea for us and me as we filled your room with smoke
but I spilled mine. You couldn't divine the meaning of the tarot.
The sound was warped; the light, distort from finicky flames still burning
your incense. Insentience almost overshadowed my yearning
to hold you just in short, -in lust, -or maybe as I once did
when we were young. The feeling stung, but I('m) no longer (a) kid
myself—I'm grown; you I can't own,
                                                                  nor could you be my lover.~
Each time I see you with me it makes me wonder why
when you I leave I have to grieve so much I want to cry.
Maybe I miss whom I first kissed, that passionate primal affection;
but I know now that simply thou art that—emotive ‘n tangible defection.
And so I must stake hope and trust in that which really is,
thus extinguish fie’ry anguish that you won't be my mrs.