Carted off to who-hears paths
doubly deep of our weathers.
Keeping armfuls of guts from
spilling, un-wed worms uncoiling
for their native soils.
Saying loudly our slippery peaces...
to break with surface light.
To trade ravings hinged on absence,
moistly noodling context in place.
Freakishly conducive to metabolizing
the essence of otherness.

Biting deep, breaking the red

of an apple's rain--with a face

holed up in a mouth made wide.

By the natural haste of tresspass,

to acquire taste rife with scales...

ripe truths on the rot.

Today already was, as blood
bangs what is--a man in a
pair of shoes.
Whose ends of the earth begin
again, by all manner of movement.
Happening upon, and to himself--
at a rate of frequency that cannot
be denied by anything but escape.
So he holds himself to create a
support system, one that clenches
an ache hard enough to rupture.
Blurring all the bizarre lines drawn,
by shifty industriousness.
Sometimes it comes up to his eyes, and
hangs on for dear life before it falls.
Severely scolded by fortitude.

By these slips of watery pieces,
fit against a waste of boulders--
this shoreline mirrors my
companion charms.
In the rub of spirit ventured,
the sea as flung ripples its
net in kind.
A play of seams to set boundaries--
though these words remain unwet,
their eyes are now a sea.
One continual flow in a surrender
of motion, like unto like--a common
drift coming by, and come by...
in an arrest of peace.
Nothing need move, or not move--
yet both bypassed.
All that's walled welled up, as if
passed over to capable hands that
feel for depths and shallows alike.