Tue, 24 May 2022
From long ago, but I want to bring it to the front now.
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Sun, 18 April 2021
I wrote this poem long ago. I've pretty much taken this advice about Fear . . . . |
Tue, 16 June 2020
After drinking rondel tea from the Narrative Boutique , I wanted to try writing a rondel. |
Sat, 31 March 2018
Sunny has to work hard! |
Thu, 15 April 2010
Rick Davis is playing harmonica on this. I'd love to have a solo. Moonbeams & Thin Air The way you love me is unfair Your good intentions all turn to lies all moonbeams and thin air I no longer know what I may share without clean water, the orchid dies the way you love me is unfair between us at first was something rare but history tells me it's no surprise it's all moonbeams and thin air. for you i laid my raw skin bare too often i've exposed myself unwise the way you love me is unfair some things in life are meant to wear long....but .... still time grows wings and flies it's all moonbeams and thin air i recall the touch of your hands in my hair but now i'm unreflected in your eyes the way you love me is unfair it's all moonbeams and thin air i love you more than you care....... (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 7 April 2010
Travis Lemle is the artist. |
Sat, 6 March 2010
At last -- a new one. I know that it's been awhile. It's on the long side--more than five minutes. Happy new year! (c)2010 BINNINGS |
Tue, 16 February 2010
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Thu, 4 February 2010
FIRST ELEGY Excerpt from the Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke - Translation
Direct download: First_Elegy_Translated_Rilke_-_Binnings.mp3
Category:podcasts -- posted at: 11:01am MDT |
Mon, 25 January 2010
This is the first poem I've recorded in 2007.
After Midnight
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Mon, 14 December 2009
Jimmy Cacciatore and Jason Hollar produced Flowers for You (c) 1999 Cacch a Smile Enterprises |
Tue, 8 December 2009
RARE
i rarely think of him any more that man who made me laugh and dream i hardly recall the way he held me nor how the fire dissolved to steam i always was who i am without pretense i never quite understood why he jumped the fence "you're too beautiful for me" is what he said strange words that spun around in my head i rarely think of him any more might not recognize him on the street though he shows up invisible in my cold feet i don't miss him now even when he comes to mind though the scar he left across my heart is easy enough to find the teaspoonful of ashes that reminds me of when the burning began i could blow into the wind now with the breath across my hand "you're too beautiful for me" is what he said strange words to leave spinning in my head Beauty in the scars, beauty in the dreams beauty in the way fire dissolves to steam beauty in the ashes taking flight on the wind beauty in the tears washing me clean again (c) 2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 2 December 2009
DRAMA |
Sun, 29 November 2009
my mind spins unable to empty itself of you i was born
without skin you say standing in the doorwary contemplating the rain remembering yourself an altar boy among candles gregorian chants & the strange sad music of the homeland you left at 19 long before you met me on a bridge between the Sahel and the suburbs beneath a sky of crossed stars you pierced me with a kiss like a spear carried me to a cliff at the edge of the canyon and then you flew -- a naked peregrine against a sky clouded by smoke from a bridge on fire below leaving my skin burnt to ashes Ii hold in my naked hands and my mind spins unable to empty itself of you
(c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 30 September 2009
On my block six girls are pregnant, their bellies almost bigger than they are so they can't see the ground when they walk The way they walk is as if the wind is blowing them back four girls have babies you can hear squalling day and night and the girl-moms too yelling, "Shut up! I can't stand it!" Slap slap but the squalling goes on. Over at the clinic some people march with signs stepping on cracks with their big flat shoes their shadows growing long over the plants with wilted leaves. And up on the hill the boys dress hot, practicing moves while their music fills the street with a scorching beat. Uptown cars roll with their windows up and tinted dark and no one comes out to play. (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 26 September 2009
It's in the headlines in the tabloids on the lips of people knocking on my door almost before the sun comes up "the end is almost here" As children we were taught to fold ourselves under our desks at school fallout shelter salesmen knocked on our doors and we knew we were the first generation that could be annhilated in less time than it takes for a soulful kiss and when we got older our parents said: "What's wrong with this generation? they live like there's no tomorrow." Most of us are seeing middle age in the mirror in the morning . . . and our children are standing in supermarket lines where blaring headlines announce the end of the world . . . . . .watching people stream toward sem-hostile borders bombs and mines flare and boom behind them some kids garb a school in explosives Do you know the world is coming to an end? . . . But my tulips are up again leaves unfurl on brown branches young rabbits dart across my lawn Everywhere is the music of birds who have made the long journey again. Water falls from the sky and changes the color of the grass We interpret symbols and imagine we're equipped to portend the future. The wheel of fortune turns Who stands to gain from saying "THE END!" Who stands to lose? ************************ (c) 2008 Binnings |
Thu, 17 September 2009
Sister Juana Ines de la Cruz lived in the certainty that "all things come from God, who is the center and at the same time the circumference from which all the lines of creation issue and where they stop." Such was the life of this religious woman of 17th-century New Spain, who not only left her mark on Spanish-American literature but whose cry of revolt over their inferior position of women is timely even today. Beatriz Berger. World Press Review. Oct 1994. From http://www.lasmujeres.com/sorjuana/rebelnun.shtml Here is your introduction to Sor Juana. And here: http://www.latin-american.cam.ac.uk/culture/SorJuana/SorJuana2.htm A Su Retrato Este, que ves, engano colorido, que del arte ostentando los primores, con falsos silogismos de colores es cauteloso engano del sentido; este, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido excusar de los anos los horrores, y venciendo del tiempo los rigores triunfar de la vejez y del olvido, es un vano artificio del cuidado es una flor al viento delicada, es un resguardo inutil para el hado: es una necia diligencia errada, es un afan caduco y, bien mirado, es cadaver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada. My translation: To Her Portrait the artifice of colors that here you see testify to cunning and crafty grace But if its false logic and gloss faded away, we'd begin to see how illusory is the likeness, how human vanity deceives us all into thinking years erase the horrors those years have etched into our faces But to battle with time is insanity, is a futile gesture you cannot hope to win, is an absence of caution, is wit put aside is a delicate flower caught in the wind is a weak defense against what Fate's contrived is a conquest doomed, and you know in your mind it's a corpose, dust, shadow, a reed's insides (c) 2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Direct download: To_Her_Portrait_-_Sor_Juana_translation.mp3
Category:podcasts -- posted at: 8:40pm MDT |
Sun, 9 August 2009
It's be awhile & I listened to this one today, so I thought I would move it toward the front for a little while. Time for a new photograph.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Two years ago today is when I flew to Phoenix to meet the surgeon for the brain bypass. These two years have truly been an incredible experience. I am alive. Thank you, everyone!!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ==================================================== My first for 2008 . . . a poem I had sought . . . and here it is. Cycles of life . . . I Wait We're slipping along the paths that lead away from each other-- no longer lovers and barely friends. The echo of your words of love throb in empty canyons ever more distant while day to day jargon swallows memories of when we once touched. Even now a bond reaches from me to you, each day unraveling and growing more tenuous. We don't talk except in empty phrases that neither move the earth nor us. I neither leave nor stay . . . I wait. (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 2 May 2009
"Yielding" is a vilanelle. |
Fri, 13 February 2009
Are there times to cultivate indifference? |
Sun, 25 January 2009
MY NAME IS LIGHT Those empty plates that lie beside the spoons are white and barren as November's moons; the candle on the table brings no scent, but time is never given--only lent. Strike up the match and touch it to dry bones; a barbeque of all our sad night moans and fears that choke us while we yearn but starve-- the world has done enough to dredge and carve a cruel gulf to keep us separate. The gumbo's on the stove; come fill your plate. The days that stretch ahead we cannot know; the candle burns too quickly or melts slow, but now my kitchen glows with hottest flame. Cross the line, come close, and know my name. eleanor (c)2000 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 20 December 2008
(The pic above is actually my parking lot with a gorgeous sunset. This poem is a Sestina. This is one of a triptych--three sestinas in this case that go together....)
BALANCE It's easier to escape into a dead past than to walk the voluminous fence that separates his life from yours, to keep a precarious balance while you long for the solid feel of arms around you, a caress in the night. The most longing times are at night, but when you recall the past, it's a means of disarming a present -- that looks like a fencing match, a means of getting your balance. The past may be dead. But it's yours. And you can remember all of your hol-i-days: a canoe trip down a river at night . . . . . . learning to stand on one foot . . . balancing your checkbook . . . looking beautiful . . . and walking past a string of men sitting on a fence showing you their flexed arms. . . . The first time he took you in his arms, when maybe he loved you some time before the construction of fences . . . some time before you got lost at night . . . some time when you had no past together . . . when all seemed in balance. But the scales unbalanced. Words turned into arms -- firing up the aching past you'd divorced when you left your father's house . . . wounds reopened in the night -- until you had to build a fence to protect yourself, a fence built high and straight, loigs balanced. And here you are: alone in the night with only your own arms to surround you. Not much to look at in the dying past. Yet armed with the past You pull back from the fence Balanced for a moment at midnight (c)2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sun, 26 October 2008
Tired of being alone, you open your doors and invite people to press their feet into your carpets, drink wine, and talk about politics, movie stars, and the meaning of life. Alone again, you muse about how women and men long for extended seasons of love and how all you know of the world is asses braying -- a lion's roar -- garlands celebrating your house --that if your philosophy is skepticism, no one can dispute the words you spread out on the sand under the sun, that if you fill cups with water and feed hungry children, who will deny you your ambition? --that favors turn up in unexpected places. . . You meet a man in the road carrying luggage with foreign stickers, and ask him how things explode, to explain spontaneous combustion, to carry your grocery bags to speak plainly of plans, to sit down on your sofa to write a letter that talks about how hard it is to see the obstacles that lie in the desert ahead. And then you stand near the desert not knowing if the sun rises or sets, knowing only the time to cover your face from the drying winds. It's sleep . . . or . . .love . . . . or . . . God . . .you need. #### (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 24 September 2008
In
the still dead of night, a fear takes hold, a
suggestion of giving too much, then being left alone. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. How
many times have you yearned to be bold but
afraid the cord will break and drop you with a moan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. You
travel to the days when they tried to mold you,
dissatisfied with your natural skin and bond. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
relieve the threat of getting ironed into the fold of
a cloth without txture, music, or tone. ]In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Night
after night, the stories are told about
houses burning that you don’t own. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
lose sight of the rainbow as the days unfold counting
the minutes you have yet on loan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. |
Sat, 8 March 2008
The walls are so high Opportunity is perennial yet underground like a sigh Acquaintance with privilege Who truly are you? Behind those walls, what do you do? Or think about when moments are spare Or minister to with strong feelings of care? Acquaintance with privilege What matters to you? What are your priorities? In your life, what's new? (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Mon, 4 February 2008
though i hear your words there is no action so why should those words mean anything to me? you've held your secrets you've hid in the shadows you claim that's your right and yes, yes it is you can stay in the shadows i'll not look for you there nor will i care what you say stay in the shadows it's your right but those shadows will hide the jewels |
Thu, 22 November 2007
Bodies This body slid into the world with perfect limbs lungs . . . and innocence for years it did all the things bodies should do moving breathing crying cringing from bumps falls burns bleeding touching he sweet the bitter he sour salt sleeping under blankets and beneath stars seeing objects and plants and animals hearing music and voices and clicks and creaks Maybe we don't enjoy the way our bodies hurt or give warning or the rough hands that press into our ribs the bite and itch and burrow of feeding insects the way cold can be too cold or hot too hot and how viruses make us ill when do we learn we're not to love these bodies? their colors their shapes the sounds they make? the marks and scars that hint at our most dramatic stories? we conceal our bodies some of us even keep out the lights so our lovers will not judge our bodies as harshly as we do ourselves those who remove their clothes have the bodies we're supposed to have implanted liposuctioned rhinoplastied bo-flexed waxed like fruit in a display ad how do we come to be conscious of bodies and then despise our own? these bodies that entered the world to do the things that bodies do . . . these bodies that cook everything we can ever taste of life (c) 2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 17 November 2007
ODE TO A GLEN Come now into the shady glen with the ferns underfoot a brook enters from a mysterious opening in the dark soil and tumbles rock to smooth stone the leaves shift to allow dappling of light over the old log we sit upon in this quiet place where so much happens without words take in the scent of humus and yesterday's rain fingertip to fingertip we breathe in a moment that cannot be revoked (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 15 September 2007
You inspire me to remember walls of stone, dead-end streets, the razed hill where the bulldozer sits idle. Back at the house a man is tuning the piano while you and I walk over clumps of dirt beside a cold lake. I keep an arm's length between us, knowing how thin my skin's become. Tell me . . . what's the use of it? One more step toward an abyss where there are no words, just a sucking gravity and darker dark-- and heat that sears old wounds. That's the composition of emptiness . . . I stand here with you and see twisted, broken forms littering the ground we walk upon, and I can calculate the distance between us by measuring the span between me and the ragged moon. What's the use of it? I take my own hand to lead myself home. Bridges burn behind me on the lake. I can feel the flames; no need to hurry now. Nowhere to go. You inspire me . . . so. (c) 2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Fri, 10 August 2007
Touch I want to know the meaning of touch if i touch you, you don't say so.... why do you hold back so much of what you feel where there is such possbility for where we might go? Why do you hold back so much when our hands and thoughts match as do our songs and their echo I want to know the meaning of touch, want to slide off your shirt and caution and look at you beside the window why do you hold back so much? Tonight I am tired of the watch, wary and distant, lying low-- want to know the meaning of touch... Let me caress your wounds -- wound me if you must burn me to ashes; melt me like glass-- oh I want to know the meaning of touch Why must you hold back so much? (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Tue, 17 July 2007
Tired of being alone, you open your doors and invite people to press their feet into your carpets, drink wine, and talk about politics, movie stars, and the meaning of life. Alone again, you muse about how women and men long for extended seasons of love and how all you know of the world is asses braying, a lion's roar, garlands celebrating your house that if your philosophy is skepticism, no one can dispute the words you spread out on the sand under the sun; that if you fill cups with water and feed hungry children, who will deny you your ambition? that favors turn up in unexpected places. . . You meet a man in the road carrying luggage with foreign stickers, and ask him how things explode, to explain spontaneous combustion, to carry your grocery bags to speak plainly of plans, to sit down on your sofa to write a letter that talks about how hard it is to see the obstacles that lie ahead. And then you stand near the desert not knowing if the sun rises or sets, knowing only the time to cover your face from the drying winds. It's sleep . . . or . . .love . . . . or . . . God . . .you need. (c) 1997 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sun, 3 June 2007
La gitana who dances between moon and star has the power to touch you at your core Revealing the nuances between venus and mars she'll take you where you've never gone before guiding you through an enchanted door her ability to lead you past walls and bars has the power to touch you at your core she'll take you where you've never gone before to worlds described only in ancient lore she causes you to yearn and to dream more dreams t han floated on the evening air Her breath lifts you to the heavens to soar to dance with her among gasping stars Her voice on the strings of a sweet guitar have the power to touch you at your core the power to touch you -- caressing and stimulating every pore. she'll take you where you've never gone before la gitana who dances between moon and star has the power to touch you at your core (c) 1999 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Tue, 1 May 2007
I had such a prejudice against rednecks I got in a relationship with one just to find out what it was all about A relationship with a redneck means when you go camping there's got to be a Colt 45 in the tent You learn the names of all the guns his special room is filled with pelts and horns just to remind him of what he killed he drives a big red truck and takes the back roads away from population his hero is John Wayne One time I asked him if he could go back to any time in history what it would be and he said he'd find himself on a hill in Texas on a day the buffalo converged . . . millions of buffalo black on the earth commercial bison slaughter last year was a record 34,444 animals consumers turned to bison as an alternative to beef in the wake of the discovery of mad cow disease someone's dreaming of buffalo ranches in Hokkaido, Japan, to serve at a specialized restaurant like the media mogul Ted Turner's Montana Gill but i listen and i hear the drums and the song within the winds -- and in the distance I see the herd . . . blackening the plain (c) 2005 |
Fri, 30 March 2007
She's the one you love when you want sanity when that crowd you run with eats your soul when the routine life is all uncertainty -- then you love the woman who exacts no toll. You love her because she doesn't ask you to give she's like a bright stroke of lightning, like the waiting earth and she holds a piece of your heart...a shard of ice, a flake of stone... That sturdy bit of sanity in a churning world the live and let live woman, blood, flesh and bone.... (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Thu, 29 March 2007
I want to know the meaning of touch if i touch you, you don't say so.... why do you hold back so much of what you feel where there is such possbility for where we might go? Why do you hold back so much when our hands and thoughts match as do our songs and their echo I want to know the meaning of touch, want to slide off your shirt and caution and look at you beside the window why do you hold back so much? Tonight I am tired of the watch, wary and distant, lying low-- want to know the meaning of touch... Let me caress your wounds -- wound me if you must burn me to ashes; melt me like glass-- oh I want to know the meaning of touch Why must you hold back so much? (c) 2007 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The original of this has been on my website here for a few years: http://geocities.com/tori_the_rose/ Or if it works this way: http://geocities.com/tori_the_rose/ The website needs IE browser to open properly. That webpage is the predecessor to this one. The music there is completely different from here. But yes. Predecessor. |
Mon, 19 March 2007
Bodies This body slid into the world with perfect limbs lungs and innocence for years it did all the things bodies should do moving breathing crying cringing from bumps falls burns bleeding touching the sweet the bitter the sour salt sleeping under blankets and beneath stars seeing objects and plants and animals hearing music and voices and clicks and creaks Maybe we don't enjoy the way our bodies hurt or give warning or the rough hands that press into our ribs the bite and itch and burrow of feeding insects the way colds can be too cold or hot too hot and how viruses and bacteria make us ill when do we learn we're not to love these bodies their colors their shapes the sounds they make? the marks and scars that hint at our most dramatic stories we conceal our bodies and some of us even keep out the lights so our lovers will not judge our bodies as harshly as we do ourselves those who remove their clothes have the bodies we're supposed to have implanted liposuctioned rhinoplastied bo-flexed waxed like fruit in a display ad how do we come to be conscious of bodies and then despire our own? these bodies that entered the world to do the things that bodies do . . . these bodies that cook everything we can ever taste of life (c) 2006 |
Thu, 1 March 2007
A couple years ago, I was emptying my life of everything I did not love. And then . . .. among others things, someone robbed my home while I was in the hospital. I sold that home, the home my daughter and I had never gone to live in again . . . Open life . . . open arms . . . Here's the first (unpoetic) poem of 2007. what a year of loss it's been what a year of loss my home my lover my routine what a year of loss it used to be i had high hopes but reality sank in it used to be i could throw a rope because i was so strong what a year of loss it's been the old path closed, destroyed the new path does not permit the user the liar the thief 'cause what a path of loss that was what a path of pain crafting a new path is just a little hard a path of strength a path of peace it's just a little hard but i'm alive so i'll keep on refueled and travelin' on the time of loss behind me now the rocks and rooks blown off the new path does not permit the user the liar the thief i'm alive and i'll keep on myself my love my dream (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sun, 11 February 2007
We meet in a place where words and pictures begin to occupy some apartment or maybe a dance hall park bench or chair in the back of an auditorium in the back of the mind sometimes i lay a kiss on your cheek but you don't feel it sometimes you dance with me in abandoned circles to music I don't hear it there's a room of desire with a locked door a succession of past lives marching around the periphery of the colonnade dancing around your landscape near the sea and palms and brown women shaking my landscape of mountains and sky and pink children what could make these landscapes collide and quake open that locked door? a car a train a plane a thumb held up to the wind But time is not of the essence The essence is this time (c)2006 eleanor a binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Fri, 2 February 2007
(c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 17 January 2007
(c) 2005 binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Mon, 15 January 2007
I've heard that political poetry fades when the issue is resolved. But gosh, today it's hard to believe we live in a democracy when the dog on top kicks crap over all others except those who feed him treats. Brainwashing. Last year at this time when I was awaiting my brain surgery and Sharon was como-ed out with his stroke, I was watching a lot of TV since I was supposed to do anything strenuous (that is just about nothing so my there'd be no interior-head explosion. It was clear that a lot of people were coming out of the Cave, i.e. Plato's Cave. When it had become clear that the U.S. was going to Iraq, I began researching to find out why since all the puzzle pieces weren't fitting logically together. I expected to find a good, solid answer. Nope, I found seriously nasty answers. Depressing, aggravating, frustrating, ugly. The Downing Street memos were just one more nail in the sociopathic coffin. How were all these people who encourage or make terrible decisions raised? Raised to be sociopathic . . . psychopathic? Anyway, I wrote this political poem in a little state of irritability given the news of the Downing Street memos. Soooo, it is . . . my irritable poem?? I wish I knew who the person I'm quoting in the poem is. I found it as an anonymous quote. I'd love to give that wise person credit!! P.S. There's a Downing Street memo webpage here: http://www.afterdowningstreet.org -- and another here: http://www.downingstreetmemo.com/ Here are the words . . . . sow a thought; reap an act...sow an act; reap a habit...sow a habit; reap a character; sow a character; reap a destinty, someone wise person once said....being sensible is not the same as being overcautious...being reckless is not the same as being courageous...being stubborn is not the same as having conscious resolve....blind faith is not the same as confidence...; getting the answer you want is not the same as the Truth.......when a leader fixesintelligence and facts around a policy...? Lead time 90 days . . .Use forces already in theatre ...lies, lies, lies . . .sow a thought, reap and act, shed blood.... sow an act; reap a habit . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 13 January 2007
Since my aneurysm., most of my stuff is packed away, and I'm not sure where the poem is. I'll pop it up here as soon as it turns up for me. It's a little different . . . maybe . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 30 December 2006
People must wonder how many people the water here can support. Definitely xeroscaping is a good idea here. Sprout, grow, bloom, go to seed . . . (c)2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Wed, 6 December 2006
You light a fire in an ash can under the willow and sliver moon setting with Venus over the open sea. We talk of shifting continents, how this wind may breathe over us the mingled dust of our ancestors' bones. Mars rises behind the moon. The fire casts violent shadows over your face. I am a continent of women to you---but to me . . . you are one man . . . who fires a thousand years of rage into me-- enough rage to burn the sky-- I am no continent--but an ocean swallowing fire whole. Watch now how Mars trails the moon... and the moon is falling into the sea (c)2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Fri, 29 September 2006
Prior to my awareness of the aneurysm, I had two bad falls on ice about one year apart from each other. It is impossible to know if they influenced the aneurysm or not. But they were memorable falls. Here's a picture taken a month or so after the first fall -- still the bump & bruise. And here is "Pressed." (Next I hope to put up translations.) (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sun, 10 September 2006
Guaranteed Love Spell to be Chanted During a Blue Trapper�s Moon i am everywoman whose eyes have held yours, who has steamed your nettles has raised welts in your mind made you laugh, weep ......drift i strip away your barricades, your hesitation to love my breath stuns enchants you with the scent of ginger sassafras and then fills your bowl i am a mosaic of spices that awakens your taste my touch sings to your skin like a harem of bells i am the yeast leavening your dough to ecstasy i host your roots ....make you lucid i lay my claim to you you will never forget me (c) 2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Sat, 9 September 2006
"Generations," "Trackin'," "Greed?" and "Sow a Habit." (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |