Snakes

Look at here 

And what a way we are:

Interlocking scales

Interwoven tissues

Plied into arrangement 

Of the preening king and queen

And at what a way we dive

Splitting seconds

Slashing instant

Breaching the fore

To foray feeling from our mouths

To deliver venom like treason

Of the self 

Of anything else but the other

And at what a ways we stab us senseless 

Despite a heinous crowd of onlookers

And good-lookers 

And thieves and witches and wives

And wonderers

And at what a way we take

Each other

Blue bowl

If you could imagine it
I'm sitting at the bottom of this bowl
A firm place to sit
Of a seminal blue
The form of blue
Leaking
Up the walls of the bowl

I took a look once
To see where bleeding color
Disseminated
To the rim of my bowl
A cloudy white, forsaking its mother blue meaning
There's a plate directly above me
A confusing dance of browns and greens and watery blues

I considered once
If you could imagine it
The possibility of living
On a sphere in the sky

Circus

I'm at once ready to say a million things that aren't mine, but nothing gets out. Impractical as I know it is, I gape at you for a good minute. Too long for a pause of casual significance. I can feel the close of a meaningful pause into a barren area of elapsed time. A horizon of sensation finally trickles in after the third minute, reaping a letdown that perhaps plays into the mood. Plays into the mood. I look up and there's a glint of fervor at your chest, and the yellow torchlight dresses you in plaintive glow. Coalescing in your cheeks your forehead, and the direct reflections of your skin, you are a skeleton. My eye has stripped you, or call it my eye stripped, but here we seem to be: naked, but for bones that do not indicate human enigma. Thrum to my chest and behind my eyes something lapses into an instant of sleep, dreaming a shotgun. I've dosed off. The next thrum charters screams into my inner passageways, and eyes burst open:

Elephant of hair and leather and ancient tusks, eyes like earrings, accessories to massive guile; indistinct man caped to indicate the grandiose, pleads attention like it plagues him, dread neuroses, imagined and otherwise frame his context to me; resting trappings of trades long played out. This is here. It for that moment laid alone in its intention of diversion. Now it is merely in front of me like the sloping hillock of fleshes an bones glowing yellow for torches. 

Down and back

One day I'll know how to pour out a river

And strain fro it the small creatires lurking

They will feed myself an others

The bounty of a mineral substrate

Their bodies will come apart

Chitin, sinew, a mess of nerves

And further these structures descend

To the isolates of calciums and carbon strings

But I'll fear this moment

Oh, why not a bone

A fish 

A river

The whole river

The wind

Pentip

Not one thing worth its salt

Other than perhaps the tip of the pen

And how it means at ink's spark

A set of selfish questions 1

Which eyes could I bear 

If I could bear to choose

Better those that take this ride the furthest fastest

But the branches of this tree 

Crowd the future paths from sight

Questions mounting 

Am I doing this right?

Why make a man an anemic inner eye

But then why make a man

Without eyes at all

And has been done 

And they didn't know either

History lies in the smack of action

Poised on the lips of loved ones

Where people never change 

And they are always present

As long as you can still talk to them 

Beginnings

Good morning, World!

Silence replies

A whisper of confusion 

Shh!

And still

They are letting me pretend 

The beginning of times

So I can name everything 

All over again

Turning

Once more I light my feet on solid ground

Everything here looks so different to me

I listen close to hear the earth turning

Curve of the song

Curvature of a singing blade

Bade me save the spirit at my sternum

And all of this the split second purge

Before I took the surgeon's plunge

Thrusted hands through busted bands

A mess of sinew and sorely circulating hearts

I raise the carnage 

Ripping out gemstones 

Laughing at the sorts of pains 

That force a full restart

Use to startle me apart

I drip into the curvature 

Of a singing blade

Little painted box

Fumbling through confessions

Scripted on paper slips

The box fits in the palm of my hand

But is comparably more honest

To think that three hours ago

These papers did not exist

It would have been shouts 

And slamming of mouths and fists

All it took was reaching 

To the back of an abandoned shelf

Why do I even keep so many things?

To remind me of my humanity?

To remind me of what this all was?

What am I supposed to do with memory?

Why would you want to remember?

Why would you even try?

The items scattered in my room

Fall off the face of feeling 

I am awed by the space I preside 

Eyeing walls and floors and chairs

I see the maze of subtle humbled

By the planes and angles

The coarse of stepping stairs

Capping the crisp cardboard top

Painted in your own wist 

The box is put back on the shelf 

Leaving just me

emptying and dishonest

Some summer left over

it was summer on the tongue

in the lagotto of evening strollers by

and how it played into the tree's voices

though the leaves rustled on the ground

the crispness called for coats

and the sun shone low

very low

as if it meant to slice the top off our sky

and let the cosmos in

it already seemed a bit thin up there

from the vantage of a park bench 

in october