just visiting
   every once in the while
                this exotic place
where dreams take shape
again

along treelines
   very near the coastal plains
                a time once where ships
had sails and lives were
placed

by visionaires
   painting psalms as true stories
               and dreams as real life
morals with plans to make
more

in the future
    as sticks and sands and
             and waders in the blue surf
lapping at ankles call the
shore

home as the sailor seeks
      his love when the sails have folded
              the salt washed in fresh waters
again a sip of barley
seek

amore'

Ergo; distal;
two of my proximal
favorites,
I've wanted to weave into
a write since
I thought of them-
now I just sort of lead with them,
not quite weaved, and tell me
could I?
I'm thinking on my feet
or rather my ***,
just typing, ergo
the distal part of my buttocks
aches a bit.
I want this to make sense but my fingertips
ergo the distal tips of my
appendages
are now tingling,
a bit of carpal tunnel,
I suppose. Some things just
are not supposed to be profound.
Ergo distal

we are devilish sparrows flitting
anon, currant fruits upon a limb-
talons curl grasp the worlds
ovaries and testicles
in delightful spurts
of esplanade;
an umbilical cord remains
after mama chews in two
the veins,
in vesical exuberance
we splay
and **** and hew
the sweet fruits flesh the
mane
the same as our
tree trunks do.
Cantilever on a shelf
ripen
weave a poem ourself
make cream and wetness
come into the silver eyes of lust,
it is all so normal now
the cow(brown cow)
forever
masticates
white forever now

seeds sprout sow
the very unhappy
love lost
the un-kempt
un-fertilized
loneliness of
sodden rows planted carefully
that fail to burst no matter the care
tended
tendrils  from the next
row
creep  in
to loose upon the soils
a magnum opus somehow someday
becomes roots
becomes the next day's soil
the next world's
good  
a next field
open

My dear,
they say that a poem is a work of art.
they say that It is emotion,
pouring from your bleeding heart.
and I find that to be quite true,
but not every emotion is happiness anew.
the sadness the anger and pain and fear,
they each have a place to reside in here.
for such raw emotion does set the tide
for the torrent of words
that in a poem, does reside.