The tiger is here
to eat us, our
Life, and finish
dessert with a Pi.

Let's vote.
All in favor
of running, run.
All those in favor
of stillness, run.

The maai is closed.
Interstitial space allows
only muscle memory
moments
trained through countless
centuries of bipedal
scattering, synchronized
patterns designed to
confuse
a striped predator.

We move
unsure of threat
yet left, running.

The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my *******.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?

I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.

The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.

I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm  or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.

I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?

With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.

There's no health benefits
to fasting: still.
Your body responds
in some paleo-way;
calcium leaks from bones
to balance lost ones
escaping during the ***.
Always this homeostasis
while peeing. A setpoint.

There are those who fast
because that is what's left
to them, a prisoner in cell,
on the street, sitting in cubicles
feeling rightness with the same
wrong skin as e's fellow mate.

E does the daily pet cheats
too, until e's tired of it all,
until e wishes that there WAS
a great fallen Leader
to blame, or a giant green Tank
to stand against rice's grain
while holding defiant plastic
shopping bags.

When even violence
has been taken away:
still. We believe in peaceful
God and fast, fast or set ourselves on fire
because the concrete doesn't burn.

Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?

Two friends sit on a train.
One has a bunch of bananas.
He sits, peals each banana,
throws the peal out the window,
sprinkles salt on the remaining
firm but ripe banana and
throws that out the window too!

His confused buddy
wonders why he's wasting such
good bananas.
He asks him,
"why are you throwing all your bananas
out the window without eating them?!"

His friend replies,

...


"I don't like bananas with salt."

Tree of proto-monkeys,
brand and banded under Monkey King,
so clever, so adaptive
in substance and doing -
mushrooming in variants:
lemurs, monkeys old and new,
orangutans, gorillas, chimps,
and one big bushy brood
of extincted ***** brothers and you.

Trekking upright into dale,
valleys and over hills too
sore in feet to image
dragging a knuckle or two.

Scavengers making way,
scanning for patterns in
food moving or not,
adaptive doing from fin
to opposable rock.

Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe.  Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.

<quote>

When you’re young, and in good health,
you can imagine living in New York City,
...
<quote />

A stapel river flows in Hyena
pack,
rivulets of laughing
data.

Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted
band.

From arterial ort to capillary
place
respires a quantal
love.

Quid non quo
flows,
trickling down in plain
flat,
in crevice crag, filling just
enough.

Fresh down to Mexican
border
town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning
delta,
it breezes meta confidence within six
Sigma.

Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******,
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.

My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.

He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.

On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.

He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.

To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.

Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:

"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.

Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.

I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.

My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.

I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"

What an odd duck.
Reading his mead is like
drowning in sweet
annoyance. His criticism,
self-westernizing
reference to Greek
heroes; I know but don't care
as much as my sister,
My look-a-like; Die Zwilinge.
Who am I to question the genius.
A genius of his craft,
but blind in sanity.
Who am I to question us,
Deaf to the genius
of our own Muse-ick.

It is just us three:
#, Brel and me.
Trois Faisans,
# 6 ft under self,
Master Brel sings
still of Les Bourgeois,
and me toolin around
still JoJo.

Faithful Sultry less
bleeding gone to die.
Toothy advice sense
take chase child in lie
to win favor from Mom,
Dad and narrow eye.
Fatty truth rubs
beneath a morsel joke,
beating bushy retreat
into a sheep's cloak.
Wrath swearing against
old, Sultry and three,
false age and stiff tail
boar honest friend's free.

They link together,
number and days,
strings of value
punctuated with semicolon winks;
(and consonant curved smiles.)
A grand unifying theory
hanging Baubles, Bangles
and bright shiny Beads.
The impulse Force of changing
momentous Month bending
light years in frequency of days,
mega-Hertz too compressed
up longitudinal mornings
and down transverse evenings
of negative pressure silence.

>intercorrelate.sync.JPC.+.FB

Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.

Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.

Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.

They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.

Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.

From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.

Are there strategies to displace binge eating
with binge doing?
Wouldn't it be swell to get $ for binge coding?
something like:

poem.each do |word|
money = word.compose(your.wordstream)
end

More efficient monetizing of your thoughts.
More efficient cars and buses.
Correlarry: more paved roads, driveways and concrete surfaces,
therefore, more runoff pollution.

It's not the end game
yet, but a vast,
complicated middle game
with closed centers
and deep positional
Play.

Will our grandmasters make
a mistake real-time playing?

Chorus, string Music Box, 8. Daud Mazmur

Why does yawning slap my face?
I don't wake Yawn's slumbering
while I work, except when tired. Mercy please.
Healing bones, working.Yawning.
Waiting and churning fear into butter.
And U? How long have U curdled
my milk? Soul food & Paneer satisfies.
Save me some of that satisfaction
leftover. When I wake, yawning,
dead tired, who hears my need for snacks?
I'm tired of sighing,
of sleeping in Noah's bed,
floating on crocodile tears.
I can't swim no more with these eyes.
They're too old, swollen from too many fights.
U go. A timeout for a few hours, while I rest the no.
I hear Yawn's snore,
I know the dinner's ready;
Enemies sit; I share the butter without shame,
and suddenly we are not disappointed.
We have guiltily repented.

In the beginning
there is a class
of creatures we call Gods
that much later
we realize are just mono-
instances of god.

From the tower
I babble tongues,
coded messages and ciphers
that you implement
in your daily rituals
and obsessive behaviors.

In R, it's something like,
christ <- god(moral compass)

In Ruby it could be
buddha = God.new

And perhaps a nihilist or we
would find happiness in

10000.times do
pushRock = buhdda.take(me)
end

It's all pidgin for me,
unstructured glimpses at a world
that's moving and changing
faster than my non-existent
grandson can comprehend.

It's all a network
of +1 and like'd
firing mix media,
reinforcing a nascent
thought stream,  
back-propagating our legends
and fairy tales, Grimm
reminders of epic Odyssey |
5 Armies in film |
Warring States |
loping dog with a severed hand
in Akira black & white mouth
repossessing Spaghetti Westerns
back into our feudal *****.

Fire, firing
into the Monsoon rain.
Always in the Hemingway
rain of symbols and Matrix
green code.

And in my cupped hand,
I catch glimmering fireflies,
instances of Gaiman's
American gods, Tricksters,
Coyotes, and my faithful
Dog smiling at me.

Dusty cobwebs
hang on a boat
and it's not even my
boat, but Mark's
memory.

A parked schooner
on the Chesapeake
Bay is a perfect home
for a spider.

The easy life,
where everything
is either food or
lethal threat.

Now I understand
what Ueshiba says;
there is no sport.

I spin filigree strands
hoping to catch,
fishing or bait
cutting on a *******
boat, a spider
who sometimes mistakes
mate for morsel.

<quote>
I bought a red bra, she said.
I knew you'd like it.
The only problem was I didn't
have a red blouse to wear with it.
...
<quote />

I ask for direction but only the spirit knows,
the semantic is lost in one ritual or another subroutine.
We breath in violable biology to voice a movement
that joins u to me and together we point there,
somewhere without realizing that I consciously exhale.
A relaxed breath in but two ways out.

There is no committee nor panel of experts,
endless discussions, of morality of us all;
There is only me deciding how to exhale,
which way to breath out.
There is no wrong or right, only the slow,
controlled, submissive, submission vowels
or short, percussive consonants full of sound
and fury signifying the falling
golf *****, scattered on off-target greens,
a lawn of flamed bogeys.

A brief pause in silence aftermath, memories
of honored and vicious executioners
before I pick up the next eddie current,
the next randori in forgotten volume,
in brownian space, in distance maai,
in movements unthinkingly remembered.

I wanted to kiss
her knee-- a sharp
edged, angular,
comic book, superwomen
clean cut, streamlined
down to tapered calf,
to pointing toe-type knee.
Hers wasn't a square
worker's padded joint
for kneeling down.
Under sheet and pillow
I once found it
giggling with spastic
warnings!
Her knee was ticklish!
My heart never did
smooch her there,
fearing some reflexive,
paroxysmal laughter
would kick me in mouth.
Ouch. No kisses on the knee.

And what about the days
that don't come,
or the Hours not spent
buying flowers from Edeka?

Where do they go?

Do they join Walter
in some daydreaming
intermittent reality?

Is the Time
evaporated by Entrepreneurs
burning our candles
at both ends to turn
steam driven carbines
for our adiabatic work
cycles underneath Caves of Steel?

Is it enough to live
part of someone else's
dream because we know
that our's Comes this
way Wicked?

Actuators, cogs, brain bit,
and organoids all on Chips
or ships setting sail
into rosy fingered robots
of dawn.

Ahoy mateys!

We set sail for a Manifest
Destiny without O Captain,
My Captain; though the civil
struggle continues dressed up
in some ******* suit.

Choir don't need no Gath Brooks

Lordie lord, spam that yawns across earth's lawn,
set your glory upon holy sky!
Baby talk, HA! That's processed Kraft
cheese or strength, babbling to silence avengers.
Do you see or does your finger point
to Moon, Stars and Kautempathkan.
What is a man that you can't remember,
Or a son who can't care of man?
You've made a name of nameless less.
Memhkotainya, name it with dignity.
Show some respect for the handywork,
they stare beneath our feet.
Bleating and mooing,
and Yes, beasts in field,
chicken ****, and fish,
sea lane routes
to Us, our way
Nobly in your ***** named.

<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-***** brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>

EDEKA is a small grocery market here in Germany, and it's usually stuck between other shops. It’s like that where I go. Tucked inside a mini-shopping center, across the street from a Penny Markt there it hides. Before you enter, a flower shop to your left waves and tries to distract. I hardly ever give it notice, until today I had one of those flashback moments like an old hippie hearing a cool LSD trip laughing past him. I was busy thinking about work, and what food I needed to buy when the flowers flashed and a dormant trace flickered. And just for a nanosecond, I thought "wouldn't it be nice to get her some flowers today." Blue-violet iris came and went with the skip of one heart beat. It was easy to keep walking past into the EDEKA.

David Song

Yawning wide I awake amiss foes!
More Haters rise against wayward me
No beat say Haters have I in heart
Rhythm down for the count, no help
Roll & Rock.
Lordie lord, how wall sound wraps me round
Gloria singing song, smoking eyes
Let me sing too to you waking yawn
Holler and the caller, breaking rocks
Rock & Roll
Lays me down
And I awake with a lifting Yawn.
Bring it on you thousand Naysayers
Circling round and round against me
Wake up Yawn!
Salvation
Hits haters in cheek and tongue
There's more to me than broken Fang
Saved by master tape my longing Yawn
Beatle blessing to the masses of
Rock & Roll.

I need to go.
I am displacing
here.

Displaced Wednesday,
time to fast, not
for my health, not
for moral justice, not
to slow consumption, only
from dawn to dinner, a
lackluster way not
to restore dopamine, not
to suppress apetite
in some lateral, percussive
hypothalamus injury.
I fast in sync only
with voices and volume, doing
in mind emptiness.

A Dancing fever
spreads across
Deutschland from
ancient Roman City
Aachen

to far away
Madagascar where
proto-people
live, waking to morning
whooping calls
and fading habitat.

We can still find
preserved Lemurs
in Duke hospitals
and open zoo
for robust ring-tailed,
or dark cells
for the nocturnals.

Would they dance
too with us, in mass
hysteria,
irrational exuberance,
and ergot
poisoning if
only later converting
to a Science
belief-system new?

My hour on the stage half dun
Gone are days of limerick fun
Gone green dragon flying as Lark
Remembering ex-marine snark

In Hollywood bar, his heart trice
Failed, still caring drove to hospice
There, where days laid he on just one leg
Amputated cries, pain dared beg.

Yet after death lurked a grin,
A lark phone call to next of kin.
Frank doctor blind to ****** pun
Irate, berate to unkind son,
Spoke he with clenched fist did shook,
Asking who laments father cook.

When brand becomes bland
and routine and rituals
move in rigid homogeneity.

When monocultures spread
like healthy cancer
and our volatility meter
sits still at fever.

When popular financial service
say, that "the center
can't hold anymore."

When sleeping frogs
never wake even
though the enthalpic
belly satiates fully
and any tiny misanthropic
speck will spark
nucleation around
a waking me.we

When these blocks
fire in the deep,

then our dog clan stirs,
a smiling hive feasting
on dead amphibians
left motherly as sustenance
to begin a Trickster's
journey.

There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.

Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.

4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.

Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.

Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?

What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.

False Saffron leiter  
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.

A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.

Spinach
Lettuce
Bourbon

Chicken
Mushroom
Scotch

Rice
Sardines
V­odka

what the **** is a Nightingale I
know its a bird I
know there Florence Nightingale
and in my abstract mind I
see a bird of the night
sitting upon the chest of my
sick child

she's not plucking her
eyes for food instead
she's giving her Dark
magic from our book

she's nursing Midnight's Children
with kisses as tender
as an obsidian blade
shaving pubescent legs
to a sharp sheen
ready to cut morning's
edge with ebony rage

Blackheart gives
a gun to me
my brother,
and slaps us
my sister.
He says for country,
for security sake
take this pistol
and shoot us
because we are them.
In traditions long
lost to meaning,
I cover her face
to hide my shame,
kick her rib
to mute the pain,
and **** that hole
before life's drain.

A man comes into Starbucks
and says to the barista "I
want 3 coffees-- One for me
One for you and One for
YOUR MOM!"

The barista is slightly annoyed
but serves the coffee; the next
day the man comes
in and says "I want 3 coffee-- One
for me One for you and One
for YOUR MOM!"

Now the barista is really ******
cuz he's kinda old school
Eastern European momma's boy
but he controls his anger
serves the coffee anyways; the next
day the man comes in and says "I want
3 coffee
One for me
One for you and
One for YOUR MOM!"

The barista loses it jumps
over and starts beating on
the guy until the other customers
separate the two; the next

day the man comes in with his right
arm in a sling and bandages
covering several lacerations he
says "I would like just 2 coffee One
for me and One for YOUR MOM because you
CLEARLY can't handle your coffee"

Shoot the moon;
cuz all I have are hearts
And a *****
to dig graves.

Let's gather round
the smokey music
pyre and dance
a gymnasium
prom jig.

There's unwanted
Walmart bread
left behind for riots
on Said street.

Don't forget to shoot
because tomorrow
I won't have you
left to protect.

This is it;
the deepest I can fathom,
the fastest I can light
the flying arrow quick
released from not
so sure cocked
finger.

This is it;
the flattest I can color
the plainest I can reek
thru silicon weaving
densely threaded cloth
fibered shirt,
insignia emblazon
on Polo front
pocket.

This is IT;
the peak,
the twin peaks.
The n-peaks?

I realize
the game continues
and IT sets to zero,
derivatized as partial
IT-equations, is easier
to solve.

A blond girl walks in front
and I fall in love
not with how she jgiggles
(that comes later walking home)
because she doesn't
in her neat two short
French braids,
petite flat black shoes
and a rolled up, no
it can't be no one reads
printed media anymore
but it's there, in her purse
as she walks fast
fading into the future
I can't catch up with even if
she doesn't turn left or right
while I'm a centrist so our future
diverges splits into
parallel universes identical
except our minor chord variation
in the Music

Change is necessary.
Change is require.
But is change sufficient?

Change is a diversifier.
Change is a niche filler.
But is change transformative?

Change is not good.
Change is not bad.
But then what changes do we keep?

Heuristic small change we like?
Perpetuating idiosyncratic Absurdities?
Selecting traits for "survival"
in a world of our own creation.

Do you understand the Michael Jackson trap?

Real Evolution is easy.
Diversity + Mobility = Survival
But cosmetics is much harder.

What will the monkey see in the mirror?
Will he like my face?
Will I have diversified my humanity,
change my BIOS for faces,
to an arbitrary Facebook,
Unrecognizable to a nostalgic monkey?

Crickets rub their legs together
at night, chirping. To past
time, we two stridulate.

It's just a myth, but we sing
anyways, every night.

A calling song, loud ***
appealing, before a quiet
chirp ends the courting.

Chirp, chirp, chirp,
who the **** is he?
Chirp, chirp, chirp,
make up, or make it up,
let's ****.

A large vein runs down
the wing, serrate teeth
smiling, gnashing out
dry chirps.

Night songs of entangled legs,
or crossed wings? It doesn't
matter, and we hardly notice
the passing night.

The tumultuous song
of a billion chirps doesn't keep
us up alone in bed at nights
anymore.

There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****,
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.

Some days I wish I were an X-men
and not just an ordinary mutant.
Some days I wish I had Magician
level magic like Bink,
just enough to negate other's.
But then I look around;
The Irish and English don't have it.
The Pakistanis and Indians don't have it.
The Chinese and Taiwanese don't have it.
The Hutu and Tutsi don't have it.
The neighbors in Bab Tabbaneh and Jabal Mohsen,
don't have it.
Why should I have it?
We’re all just a bunch of Muggles.

Maybe it's a good thing I don't have superpowers.
I look around and in fits of frustration,
in bouts of rage, I might destroy all the Husnock.
I'm kinda glad now my only mutations are thoughts.
Thoughts that I put here,
viral like - infective memes - hemorrhagic e-fever.
Outbreak? Snow Crash? Virulency? Survival rate? Epicenter?
Futile epidemiology because I know
exactly what and where I am.

There was the time I waited for a phone call,
and it came and rang.
There was the time I talked on the phone for hours,
and was happy.
There was the time I got annoyed at all the phone calls.
I just wanted to work.
There was the time I looked into the future,
and made appointments for other phone calls.
There was the time when the phone calls hesitantly stopped,
and I left it off, not hooked.
There was the time I waited for a phone call.

Alert!

Oh. It's only a reminder.
Automated, automatically sent
to us.

An email, a text.
They pop on devices,
trained that way.

Tomorrow's a birthday.
Always tomorrow an Alert!
Someone's born.

Yet, the helper has become a daemon.
Friendly assistance
become nudges of melancholy.

A Daemon for grieving?

How many Alerts
can the heart take?

Yearly jolts,
automated realization
that our family is fading.

Not tomorrow's children
born into midnight's Alert,
but the child father,
mother, sister, and brother we
remember in bleaching photos.

Chemically fading away,
decaying like data
on hard drives.

Our stormy lives
remembered with
a half-life of gentle reminders.
Remembered as
ghostly background processes
sending alerts of birthdays so long
ago there's no trace except
in shared memories.

all I wanted was a Coke
with careful tendency you

call me a loser suicidal
baby
so why don't you **** me

cuz at
19, 19, n nn n, 19
I'm not gonna do it for you
anymore the days

to be more patient tries
my patients separated

by hospital bed
and hospice care into
one love and loved

ones separated by popstar
Purple curtain Rain
call

This is my life compressed time
SVG Maginot lines

that impossibly pixelate under
our modern scrutiny
they Blur

under
the heat giving off distant
Mirages that promise

reunions in death's
false Oasis

Children forging
ripple across
a deafening dune  

Flowers bow
their head to pray
lulled by the sound
of pillows

Our sappy creek nearby
sinks in time silence
trickles beyond
a graveyard


Was I in the wind
beyond clouds
beyond angels?

It's a valley carved by moving water
It's a face wrinkled by time's current
It's a hike across the valley's face
It's a trek in through our granite life
It's a shout into the cool mountain air
It's a spike tracing our cloudy memory
It's a familiar echo bounced  
It's a family reverberation gone
The mountain has moved
The river is still