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Monday, July 13, 2009


when time weary
one can skin a stone’s flowering
with scissors separating it from its foam
as its roots fill our mouths with moss
one can undress a bell’s chime
and confuse it with birth
and signing letters
the light inside a stone
can mix fragrances with wholeness
the whole belly can fit inside a hole in the earth
where stone swims in itself
before it is stone

everything dances where nothing trembles
when the bouquet of silence
winters its leaping memory
feathers in a box
decipher faint songs
from a street of trees
a pure substance
a shortened summer
abruptly pulled back to wings

that fire wrote nonsense
on the earth’s beard
and it was aged by wheels
dreaming of roads
before roads were made
stars in an unimaginable abyss
perforated by night’s
broken beings
thinking out loud

further into the panic
people emerged
in dark bodies
of steel that remembered
being bronze
suddenly clocks
have eyes
negation clarity
the all powerful
just a whisper
a muffled moistness
buffered by forrests
full of thirsty lips

there is
the noise
join it
said the sign in the eyes of disgrace
out beyond the grass
the streets feel a river of steps
on their backs
its a fortunate dawn
we have for our fire
and our comings and goings
that soak in
to the impervious metal that
we arm ourselves with
in order to walk from shop
to shop
when you meet yourself in battle
breathing in the origin story
and elbow
in the traceless
gone lukewarm


Sunday, July 5, 2009

Mended morning

Crows arguing in the field
while the woodpecker reminds me of last night
small thumps following the crescendo of fireworks
(that was followed by hours of more fireworks)

The cats want attention; everyone else sleeps.
My less weary body tells me that I have finally
caught up on some rest.

In my web wanderings, I spy a blank thought;

the grey, green, and gold
blended hues of open field
sooth the morning rise

I love writing outside.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

on leave

If light declared
the pain
the face
the hat
in the middle of the night
around the lotus
would reach for a mehir's
mysterious origin
skywriting would storybook
the edens' wild stairways
to coachwood forests
and avalons of mendacity
would turn into supermarkets
of burnt offerings
the silver rain would fall
into place
the footbridge would hand over
its serentiy
symmetry would go on sale
eroded sandstone would castle
and defend its untitled
weavings with the salt wind
the tale is muttered under the breath in delirious
sailors on leave
on the voyage they know they will never
return from

Friday, July 3, 2009

you sleep

you sleep for clay

cut your bloom at your ankles

for an undercover life of clothing

dozing uneasily in another city

maybe the last one

no directions from the yellow stones

on the windowsill

for the fading lessons

even the elevated spectacles

all sick of the dark

steering the ear

to the trampled necklace

the long stem

saddest line pointing out the sky

to its roots

the pasture's singing shatters

agonies and celebrations in the distance

something huge hidden half~open

wakening crying cracked and dreaming

whispers in the depth of the noise

the crushed hybrid

the prism of winter

the masses the concrete

the hours of a lighthouse

insist you understand your brightness

being destroyed on the roads

the sword in the rose

the question knocking at the