Too specific

Who has stranger

Make them with me

Take them with me

Growl at streets

We will

Rip up totems

We will

Dance on destructive airs 

Interest besmote with affairs

So smite a spite 

Through it

I see all 

in scintillation

Wonder where

It goes

Wonder how

It goes

After fully considered

Introspection

It feel

All too specific

Make for strange shade

Human

Hunkers down

Sit in a soft spot

Though the cushions may be stone

While listening to a soft heart

Though the beats may be only drops

Wear soft wares

Though the hat may be a cloud

Whisper a soft lot

Though it may just be a breath

And take a soft thought 

But please be sure to put it back

You may never know who might be by 

To pick it up

Hunkers down

Sit in a soft spot

Though the cushions may be stone

While listening to a soft heart

Though the beats may be only drops

Wear soft wares

Though the hat may be a cloud

Whisper a soft lot

Though it may just be a breath

And take a soft thought 

But please be sure to put it back

You may never know who might be by 

To pick it up

Rocks crunch on the eastern side

Sand is together 

Against you

Walls at the front

Behind 

Besides

All around you

And who knew it plucked away

The sound

And chewed

Replaced it with the sun

There are drifts of trees here

Certainly 

But it seems 

Only me

Only one

With a cool flick 

Of rains returning

To seed a few more

And there's more

To be here suddenly

Made dapple of the floor

I dabble wanderworthy 

Firm and swarthy 

I play a thunderclap 

A sword

Sand together returning

Always burning 

But not a bit as much forsworn 

Scarecrow

On my feet 

Like a discreet declaration

Maybe even obsolete

Such is
that I am the scarecrow

There is day under meadow

And meadow under stars

As if the lift of sun so deep

Could bring the world 

To where they are

The wisps of grassen hair
unfasten to the crisp

Evaporating whispers
From the uninterrupted mists
Working crafty tethers

Bold as black
I hold as that
which leaps into a midnight stare

As long as those nights 

That pretend to last forever

ARYTHMATIC

Like the topography of an arythmatic
or the smallest common mark
of the imperfect maker's take
on man and his sundries
he dances quakes in land
 for sake of burdening grains
that remind the workers to sane themselves
at least twice the day is long
for to keep them working
and then to work their keeping
or it all goes wrong
like the topography
of an entirely different arythmatic