Cracks and Crevaces

A short short poem
by Mrs. Dashh


Gone are the hours of youth
There isn't an open booth.
There isn't one full day without you.

Nothing can separate us, not the erased hours of labor,
or the humming voices of favor. No signed paper, or waiver. Not the crab in my mood or the bone bits in my breakfast sausage.
Not the food grease on my resume or the misunderstandings of persons separated.

Not the dog smell or the bad breathe. Not the evil woman or the arrogant frog.



Nothing can separate us, not the burning up of money or time, and
the extreme awareness and wine.

Gone and faded away are poems and fraying ways.
And the whole while of sweet and sane, loves fire remains
in the cracks and the crevaces. In the waves.

Erased are the years words in books, and the most panged tears dried up in looks.
Wild circumstances, and choices echoe in the cracks and the crevaces of the hallow.

Nothing can separate us, not time, not space, and or the erased face or heart abased. Not the crumbs stuck to my lips, not the camel toe or the bad coffee at home.
Not the enemy or falling ice above my head.


Nothing can separate us, not poison, not windows, or her toes and tatoos of sorrow.

Nothing can spearate us, not tomorrow, nor her memory, not her words or poetry.
Gone are the vanities, the desires, the dreams, fizzled and sizzled into manifested
liens.

What are we still doing here?
Where were we supposed to winter?

The chocolate candy is the most of the fill in the belly. The clock says tick tock. The belly bloats. I float. The tub is hot. The night is not. You are nigh.  Dutch apple pie. Just a sugar taste with a pie crust texture and a crisp apple texture.  What was a dollar bill doing in the trash can.  Do you want to be safe or smart? Do you want to be firm and nice ? Safe and smart?

Chipped nails and hunched shoulders. The roads outside seem cold and broken just as  a soul.  Cheerios.  Defensive. Offensive jabs at the potter? The clay can't say hey.

Lately I've been running around here in circles without a clue since the new.
Without a safe raft to float I'm remote with only prayer to make me vote.

 Milk and pie tonight. Surrounded by no reply.  So I've replied back to ignored mail for once. A little glimpse given and back in bounds of livin.

No nose pick in. Or cold pole lickin. No bull in the old. It'll set you back to days of old. Ahhh a quiet house without a spouse. These days are belly aching so. Fritos.

Greasy fingers wet with nose pick in snot. No Irish mist just watchin movies with Colin Farel accent and fair actin.  Cracked polish remover nails. Toe biting tales of creature habits before magazines struck the focus .

Love love love