within hands of sedimentary, he
rises oiled own, to know the
spatial widths of claspings, dormant
but in settled raise and movement
swayed but by shakings, rakings
of the plasma, floor beneath such
dwellers, ceiling-crawlers, brought
to kindled flame, not molten, sought
to be but tamed and holden.
say the words before the beat
ing of your heart s-t-arts y’
mind and you leave words
to caution and not a pas
sion of the jester’s soul.
where the panting fan
breathes, cool, on skin
as though friend, canine,
were as large as entirety
How her eyes, the deepest olive, marbled, and pitted-black, became ripened over the days, making for nothing more than holes, pumped full of fluids I’ve yet to taste, rotting, breaking from that beautiful green to hardened brown, and, oh, how her ‘lids, once purposed, now hang, as though caught between falling and waking. How I loved her, for a day, and I still do not know if the Moon’s come to signal the end.
when the silence of the mouth
leads to shoutings of a mind
so lost in thought to be
forgotten on the wings
of they who fly
of they who show
a way many know
a way many know
but walk through
without giving a second
to stop and see
they are the series
they are the circle
brought for to be used
; likened to the sea,
we are but ducks,
stuck on surface, dipping
in for food and sustenance
but falling ‘neath the waves
when we’ve had our fill
and want too much;
until we learn to trust
in the god of abraham
and give up what we got
we will not see
the rapids ahead
and the shallows beneath
until we’re too deep to be
any type of free
from the ‘tow of so many muddy bottoms.
all of life
is a charade
a fancy game
we only play
when the fields
needn’t be cared for
or the wind needn’t
find way through your lips
to mine; and how sweet
those times when we would
sit there, and find ourselves
waiting for the next great thing
just to go back to the old;
i love you,
i love you,
i do;
and you are sun’s
radiance,
encompassed in
the ‘guise of
gravity
, falling,
free.
a stream
from spout
of wall,
falling all
to pool
‘neath/
‘bove the
cement
seat
where all sit, and
in the ‘flections, see
i a one
how open her eyes,
so green
in the clear
of stream/ and
we, in instance,
kiss
as she stays
still for
my reachings in and
we elope ‘fore we keep
eyes from anywhere
else.
I believe, wholeheartedly, the writer is but a makeshift way to live in some way not yet realized, but the words know, and they tell you where your mind may go, without so much as words being said, but known to/read, and through these lines I hope you see I’m here, I’m writing this and you’re taking time to change your world for me, if for a second, and I thank you, I thank you, I thank you for all you’ve done, as you’ve done everything hoped for, and nothing, nothing, nothing is as good as everything so long as nothing is seen to be and something’s left for you to prosper in me, and no, yes, maybe you’ll hold these, some words and ways, repeated, felt, but not released, except in form, as nothing, every/some and more follow some malignant path not seen, but all’s well and you’re now free, if for a moment, from the likes of me.
quickening now,
the sidebar squints
to read all that’s being said;
the careless blocks,
placed ever so,
blank but what’s to be read.
In a time of need, one brings about a sense of change; from a split-sided conversation of self, a looking at things as though they are, to the notification of the mind toward the nuances of everyday experiences brought about by the turbulence of thought, bringing from a spiral-globe to radiation, spread through structure, through light and air and all of one’s skin, toward a sense of self, so adorned by worldly passings, as to be fully engraved, yet unmarked, if one merely wishes to turn and shed the writ of birthed and born mentalities.