The literature is in the leaves.
In my reading there are red spots
regardless of the page I choose.

Those with paint
of other colors
ripped me or are broken.

Look at them down the river,
made boats that do not float.

But I trust.
I trust in that child
that will find my Santa María.

And the day that I see him
being the captain and author
who scores down the chronicles of what will happen.

the seagull diddled
when he perched on my dock,
though no invitation extended,
no offense was taken,
when in observation,
of the foolish humanish varietal,
did it opine

"dude,
u need to move more
and exercise those legs,
eat right,
many small meals,
like me,
write your-poetry
while in airborne motion."

all this was spoke
while he speared and swallowed
a little river perch,
in my face,
flying off contentedly,
just to drive his point home -
directly into my gut

so should the next
pedestrian creation,
be typo'd plenty,
though,
I can walk and talk,
even chew gum simultaneously,
advice from seagulls,
who defecate on my dock,
should be taken as well,
in small sized portion control

poetry is best served,
proudly prone-ly
though I did thank him kindly,
and went back to bed...

Woodland child, you have lost the moon
to walk a path, dark of fallen trees
sorrow of your sacred homeland camps besieged
the old ways buried, deep the red earth swallowed
all the precious souls, have flown far into the endless night of eagle
feathers swirl, scattered at this ancient altar

In the ashen air
always your heart remains, your wisdom blood breathes
like the sun of fire, your dance of vivid painted colors
surreal dream of Tishomingo, trading beaded leathers
through the ages, children rooted in trees and fields
medicine men smoked in visions of waterfall suns
all of our days, deep this bloodline runs

Where's the beauty without the cracks?
What is color without black?
Where's the the love without the hurt?
What is success without work?

I like you better broken
You look prettier when you bleed
I like you better torn open
There's music in your screams.

Where's the happy without the sad?
What is lucid without knowing mad?
Where is life without death?
What is having if nothing left?

I like you better shattered
Sharp edges glitter in moonlight.
You look so beautiful hurting
In too much pain to sleep at night.

The pieces don't fit, who's going to fix it?
You can't stand, can't sit, who's going to fix you?
The bleeding won't quit, who's going to fix it?
Fight or flight, run or hit, who's going to fix you?

I like you better broken
There's nothing here to mend.
I like you better bleeding
With your heart in my hand.

With your heart in my hand.