inside the cup the steam clears the sinus passage

to breathe: a deep inhale

you might catch a hint of smoke.


the hunter pulls his humans along the path.

two geese stand watch over their flock

when the hunter lunges

they honk honk

influence the flock

before they, too

fly off and away.


we take post sunset strolls

lifting one leg up and over chainlink fence

we sip honey teatinctures

we’ve yet to stare straight into the other and watch both eyes well.


For the Love of Honey

There was singing and small white paper cups filled with extracts and concoctions. Potions that make you go Mmmm. We walked away with Pixie honeyshine and aphrodisia–“an electuary preparation” he summed up with an oreo. I’m filled with the urge to experiment. Taste test and try again. We can fill bottles and measure temperatures so nothing burns. And if we fuck up, we can figure out how to use what others might call “waste.” This plant and bee medicine gathering is all possible–it was possible tonight because we parked a block away from Tacovore and walked by Bohemia. She, a goddess, was walking just as we were passing and told us to join the bee magic. After listening to bi-polarisms and heartbreak session, the honey mead and tinctures filled my heart–an alchemical process. 

And the best take away: squeeze your sting, when you get stung, and the venom will heal your wound. 

Art by Jeremy Spafford

Crystal Pearl

Inside the milky glass: the heaven’s rain.

The conifer’s grasp: a web of needles reach, hold the weight until the burden is too much.

Another grey moon, we can tell the sun.

A white fog threatens to cloak the hills.

At the peak, without stopping, your breath waits.

A flush of wind, birds fly in formation and scatter in a dance.