fall asleep for 2 hours, wake up, and stay awake another 4. should i go back to sleep, or take another nap in 6, or just lay on my back until the ceiling resembles stars, the mini-mountains, shadowed, showing some mark of a stabled/stationary existence, but i know, with a pinch/apush/aslightbrushing, they will fall/willcrumble, as all do, eventually.. and where do they go, these fallen remnants of a ceiling, of what is oft-seen by night, now hidden within the sheets/the carpet/behind the desk? and what of them now? what of them then? what if the vaccuum picks them and places them, distanced, from their origination?.. though, the ceiling is hardly their origin. no, they were before the ceiling/the mold from which they hung in right fashion, though they belonged elsewhere.. perhaps the plaster next were used in mold of bust, of carvings, gone through with care by wretched artist, fumbling to be known/recognized/understood as other than a simple chipper of a mound? the tv calls, and i, weak/a weektomydebts, i look down from these words, in shame, and pray, though rarely i do, pray they be a remembrance of these noble stalactites, fashioned to be ‘bove, as, in art or placement, they, through careful hands or swift swipings of a brush so used, they, in fall or stance, so known as more, as though they majesty’s fractal musings, left/or placed/or ‘signed to be, are beauty, they, those/these landers from unknown, stars, but shining shadow ‘pon their selves, as do most in wait of notice, though so purposed they may be
Posts published in “Poems”
The covering yawn of air, full-held to be escaped, to be fading from the voice’d roar, in rush of crowd, of millions, bowl’d to be as risers of the fallen, to be as harvests, loosened [rocked, rounded in the loosened soil], let sit, climbed-over, rolled in upward glance-foot/swift lifting of the core to see the fields, laid strewn/laid, stained in corpses, light held off in festive linings of the shadow-flashes, dots as stars, inversed to held as swarm, wing’ing ‘llipsed as toward goal, in twist of glances, spun, o’er heads, and distance, covering, as does solstice, ‘splosion, Sun, a whistle, pitched too high from ears of skin, though all lies through as lies in, and, cross stones, stuck, though ever-loose, hands reach, to be left at fevered swipe’ings in movements, gestives in their nature, given as clappings for the strain
and it snows
as threads
snipped, short,
wasting
to be piled/spread.
as does smile.
as do tears.
and you make known your presence, your
chatter ‘long these walls, up to challenge,
though weakened with your language, your
hiding in the breath, on skin, through eyes,
you give to be taken in and, still, you speak,
you wash/click as through the brushings,
strokes, and, known, you ‘llow your sense
to be, a cradle of the mound, fresh-baked
to be a staple, stable, bustling make,
and, through these searchings, strikes,
you begin to break, as though in play,
in laughter, ‘cycled, way, you hover ’bout
to be as hand of teacher’s may, fal’n to
as festive hands may, from clap/from cheer,
though soft, to, unhindered, know, from
still as know from stalled, in as know from far,
yet, still, in stall, you give a know of all
i’m working with these words, and they belong to you,
and, when i stop, you need more, and my reluctance is but waiting
to take over, though, within me, still, i know you need/will have/deserve/will leave without more and more, and, despite, my not having/rotten thoughts, i tery, i give, as though taking from, a d feel you will find me false, though they are your words, and i am not a writer, but a fraid to go beyond the wallings of this head, and i know these tappings are without speed, with swift fingers/tipped/giving lead of me, and i hope you free them to, from thoughts, garbled/jarbled, to strike in means much longer resonating than these
and you pour,
leaking your words
down pipes,
from high, and they
trickle/find a way
to stalk the ground,
as though your prey,
and in push-soft graze
of breeze, your fingers
slip to tip of these,
and throat grows wet, in need
of dry, of speak, of world,
of breath, of thy bleed’
i have nothing but words
and the breath about me
and the slow-caress of a wrap of wind from palms to brow, to nostrils,
reluctant to divert the path to me, when so much needs more
than i let slip by
but this, these, those
grow on and inspire me, as does the Sun, as do her Shadows, The Land,
both l’quid and moving,
so tectonics are inside and show the overlappings well deserved are
but shifts, so needed to allow the revolutions to persist
and the droppings, buckets poured, smell of ringings, washings, more, to these ears, unfollied in their search for you
plip
upon the screen,
the window, bare but dotted, sprayed,
lays, in hurried fashion, another
to be dried by sun,
though its mission, sentence,
rings true
thank you.
Porcelain royalty,
Iron-haired maiden,
Sloped to see those
in front/beside/by her tips’o’toes
and all in smile, widing grin
through which happy air follows in
she smiled.
he felt her lips widen, stretch,
part as those nostrils flared
for her to breathe.
he sighed/he took her inside,
her breath, and held
to fall the chest
and release to her
his lungs.
she turned her head,
chin toward him, eyes
down to see him,
from her side, and
she showed her tongue/her throat,
open-to-welcome him, and
he smiled.
beauty, you,
smile on softest neck
adorned in strands of gold
lay fair from crown, a princess, wears