A creation

Whenever did I explode

And fragment over

The Green plastic coverings 

Of electric monstrosities

Their censored mugs are most displeasing 

But most displacing is their queasy ernestness

Attempting validation

This must be god and his creation

Silken sulk

You're a blood cloud

Blistering the water

That's a bomb in the eye

Of higher interests 

The fog ceiling sent its petty Mistress 

to guide

But She died

Sharks are tears tearing at her face

Splitting open new waters 

Crisp about them; brisk gait

And still transmutation doesn't sate

The sulk of saltwater thirst

Red breaks on the waves 

As the sun sets on silky days

Slipping undertide

A-burning

If I'll to-be a burning

Then I'll to-walk away

No one can stop me

The ropes are to-char

And then where'll I to-be

I a-take the step

To un-sheathe the wreath

To stand-under my steps

I stand a-top a funeral pyre

But the step is all a-took

To-take I am all falling

Full-gracing gardens of red

And the flowers folded in the wood

And now am I to-dead

Bein sicks

Will he get to move on soon?

Using a sextant 

When a conversation would do

Would devil you! , or something

--He said it under his breath--

Will I get to move one by noon

It's a game, right?

And all this winter morning won 

To the softest mooring 

Which is waste

Just waste

When On top of speeding rockets

Moves pieces like tectonics

Telephonic impressions rippling 

Through a gamey, heady medium 

Valentine's eyes

Here's the microcosm of eyes

Two eyes

Scoring the golden ratio

Into the rationed moment

Of their mind

Here's the play of eyes 

Two eyes 

Pausing to place the purpose of their glide

Across the room

Here's that huge figure 

Slight to touch

Sliced and suched 

To fit the form of eyes 

Like they could even mean it

Passing trains

Trains always pass each other at the same time

In that I've never seen one pass without another train there

To pass from

I think they were born this way

Tinkerers planning the cruelest jokes

Decided that every train should know 

The separation at each fleeting sight

That they should see but never enjoy

Their brethren company

Until the day they might decide

To horrify

To spoil

To choke

Death of dying

If all the councils craved 

Their death to speak

Then speaking might as well be craved

If ever there were a processed progress made

It may have been bade 

Only by the death of dying 

She gazed

Stargazer pinholes

Poked with a purple crayon

On a ruled-line page

That purposes some fate 

Dramatically unexpected

What she sees 

Can only stand

And return looks

She expected the world,

Or worlds, rather, above

But when she gazes 

She is revoked 

In ruled-line page and purple crayon

Off step

On tip-toe 

On points and needles

On my way

And otherwise ready 

Slipping the stepping

On plate-glass fractures

On lead-glass statures

On slackened legs

Slickened with blood

An otherwise steady

On dialed tones 

On dialysis moans

On my way out

Ferns never die

Ferns never die 

This wind wakens over the hill

These swords surround me

Rustling

Ferns never die

This wind wakens my chords

As they wakened his

Our order glory sets around me

Sterling

Ferns never die

His wind wakens sputters of breath

Sends the sacred sort of red oil

Barely Pounding 

I've never seen a fern die

I've never seen on born

They live in how a forest needs them

How I need him

Need his story

5th the 30

A jittered strike

And out on a bike 

It's a pout on route 

And about time 

To fly on the rolling 

There wouldn't be anything else

To say

There wouldn't be another door

When we all turn into something

I am something already

Yet something new

Anybody is 

Something else 

It's about time

To fly on the rolling

That's all folks 

We've cleared academy

But its empty halls

Do not hum anymore

A vigored smite 

And we well as might 

Make back the meat to spend

To roll and to rosy 

And to fly on the rollings

4/30

I walk the road back 

The one I took at breakneck speed

In last night's sleeping memories

It lights on the day 

As the road paths to dirt

And we hike through the tall grass

Sloping upward 

Into different gravities

I see an intersection 

Stemming out of sight of my 

Pictureframe shot 

One to the gorges 

One to the wetlands

And these places I have been

But I take the path on 

Under sun-dried oak trees

And a dirt road 

only buggies and birdsong 

Ever bothered

To my grandmother's home

I am greeted by the proprietor

A quiet lady

In the dusty wooden cabin

The ways are low

Shorter than I must be

But I manage to find the room

That I will spend the rest of my days

Reading in the waning light

2 of 30

Painted pots of empty plants

Portrayed as strays in the sod

Who bought pots to plod them

Into warm, soft earth?

And fill them

With warm, soft earth?

But then came again frost

The point is moot when chilled

And when the holes

Sprout wild onions

Who could go wrong?

When the moss meanders under 

Who could go wrong

And when crocuses peak premature

Who could go wrong

At least the pots were painted

Fields of a heaven

It's the kind of field

Where you can lay down 

And feel

The blades of grass

The sunny kisses

The winter whips

And know you're stuck

On the side of a planet

That planet what made 

the heavens and the earth

Heavens upon heavens 

I would take a step off

Touch down on white puff

And leap past the frost

Stream away in goodness faith

For other planets places proverbs

To imitate

If only just to soothe a hearth

Heavy burdened with heaven words

And heaven's holy arts

Only north

Something about mist and steam is not smoke

Something about broken water spouts

Rainbowing oases in the desert

Rewinds me

And reminds me

Somewhere about beavers' dams 

Is neither business or residential

And the bee's flight is beside dancing and language

And the geese's chevron has only north

I'd sort it out

--

If I could

But I'd have only north

--

If I could

Day 1 of 30

Water beads on my skin

Almost as when it tries

To escape the body

I want to peel away certain layers

And whisk curtain airs through me

Taking with it only iron

Or only calcium

Or only water

I would watch myself crumble

Would I wash this much

If I knew my skin?

Would I fumble soap suds 

If in this body I was safe?

How about I pick certain trails

And run along the streams

Stopping only for hills of iron

And calcium

And carbon

I would watch myself stumble here

Here I tumble into the drain

Unaware of courtesy

Of permanency

Or What at all 

Is in me