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I tried to put my heart in the sink
but it just lapped up the water
and swam
It likes to move like wind
fluid in the water
It just gets bigger
not losing any big spots
traveling like a road
seated in all the areas
sitting in the sink
like a dish you can't scrub
because it is too old
It cried on the insistence toward itself
but it just loved all the new words it heard, clear water sloshing its own elbows
like everytime, it says this
adding a book to the shelf 'New Nonfiction'
and itself wrestled to freedom along a free Library
and it sings flat
without hearing itself
and when I tried to drop it where a mountain wouldn't use its arms to move into a torrent of rain
that only heavies a long area of ground
it tried to look away
because there is so much, always so much water where there is water
no drops as is on one bounced leaf
My heart does wear a necklace of a stream; it would rather be adorned
and it has such acute ears to the sound of the clear and blue
but leave's wetness can't spread into the depths of green and stay
a wet monster just patters the whole forest jungle like a drum
The leaves don't become like rags in the sink to wash the dirt on the ground
the dirt would just stick
so the water it just runs and runs
you can just tell by the sound
and since it can't get past the green
it sees the open land next to the large bush of trees and compares
why would it only water the grass to make the earth all plain like Kansas
it is something, it is drank, all of it, in eager swallows
the days even swallowing each other
and so the mind keeps living
Good information for the mind just happens to be like this
it gets from below and dirt and whatever wherever steady earth, and from the clearest above
'So wonderful the sky will come down and love on my ears
even though they don't remember
How I tire of the ground and its mutations
How I tire of the amount of blue things to drink
but they fall against me, my different lips
and I look as if I run with the water
because I think.
The blue runs with the green
and we are just painted like a book typing with rainy ink
and it is all that I can do
Carry the weight
until it lifts and I am left to myself
with a withering neverending need
At least it's not the air and spaces with ears
like a heart without shoulders
It's a forehead and wrists
that rest on the bed of the sky, upside down
because it is so hard to be a chronic rock
so heavy it needs to suspend with its head
away, to where rocks are fluid
How many stars are spread like water
still and concluded, like one neck looking down
saying my ears must be brave
my one pair of eyes against all those clear stars in the night
Good information makes my mind spin its wheels
back against the sky and back against the ground, walls
though left and right wheels keep spinning
hell and heaven my ears
The widest place inbetween
friendly space that carries them
held with hearing- those. Those sides of my head.
To-end to-end of my heart is how long the page must stretch
and how long it would take to roll the wheels in Finality up my brain and the sky
Much slower than the routine closing of a millionth eye I've broken open from the old
Copyright Chelsea Anne Palmer Oct 19, 2013
Extreme Dreamer
like all the rain fast in the grey
my feet stamped there in the summer
so I'd see the place to dream before
in the grey fall the rain fell and filled
in the winter the river froze
but kept moving in the deep
in the Extreme weather it kept moving
like all the fast rain in the black
Grown down like leaves
Grown flat like only cold falling on you can make you
So you just have to go against the ugly sides
the profiles of grave pits
because you are something good
and something that creates
like a school you could teach flat things
to keep sneaking past the middle and the top
on the bottom
on the bottom the toppest thing that survives
Extreme dreams while you are here
Copyright Chelsea Palmer Sept. 3, 2013
Battered back
what has been
what has affected like the wind defining the shapes of rocks
Silly laws
saying you can't even feel them
my back will never go back to the other color
will never even try to counter something angry
because it has steeled like an earth
unaware of the core and volcanoes in Challenger Deep, miles past bottoms of the ocean
unaware volcanic fire in the heavist water makes it way from the bottom
unaware the terrain is never flat
your back is the most violent answer
counters things like everything is silent
but god knows and does not get angry
he kneels, more than Buddha ever could
Buddha never stood very short
sitting very tall
knees with two corners and just repeating so much.
God sees and with his shoulders drops his ears and his back
no tension of countering
but large as an elephant he shows he also has untame terrain
but done by his feet of his heart
since he does not have sad Hell inside
and then it does not seem so bad
he is this way, especially where people don't treat him like he opens flat
I am this way, eyes such lids of living sport.
We are diagnoled with burning rocks
why the most melted *** of every signal of soul and doubt?
eyes printed in like footprints of a crazy lion
this way
the night creaking with the strength of us
how much we have elephanted the day closely because we are so expensive
we just heat and motion the ground and it gets bigger
because beings cannot be slow or dull
because there is no one but spirits crisscrossing time
no one like day
there is no one little as day
we are all kneeling like true kings at the big things
there is no one as near as day
we are all in the mail flipping around up in the solar system
and all the way down, the whole thing
with every sway scooping like there's air already in every rock
Copyright Chelsea Anne Palmer Written Aug 10, 2013, edited Aug 14. I wrote this in the Dr's office waiting & then waiting at the bus stop because she had delivered a baby & couldn't get back in time, so I couldn't have the appt but at least I wrote this poem!!
He looks on the level of the ground
and level of the sky
and says you only see these two arrows
because there's black in your forearms
when you lift them to your forehead
to hold your eyes
your legs feel the right & left wing pointing up through
your feet, and the right & left wing feel the north sky
your chest felt the shooting star
all the shadow from the top of the dream
the lengthy golden cream from a filled bucket
the back of your neck feels the whole sky
instead of your face, and your arms outstretched
instead of the truth that you crave the sky
instead a lie that your bones in your arms
must point to the ground
must crawl like a stupid fattened caterpillar
who eats and eats all the life
collecting in and out of the daydream
for that cloud, not the face
yet it's the face that is leading the morning meal
not the very top of the distant distant distant clearest shape of a heavenly sway
it's the feet I have swallowing the arrows
it's when I live in the dim shadows of the sky instead of them pouring all at once
it's not the bottom or the top that I am supposed to only see
it's the east and the west, the width, wide, not the north, the south, the extremes
and it's what's inside me
the arrow that I feel the most
and it is not just the blue above my head
and not the brown below my feet
it is my arms
which are friends with size and width
arrowing out instead of too low and high
bending long from the shut chest
knowing peace
and being my skin that I feel my heart like water
speaking the truth that my legs are the things that hold the words of my dreams up by reinforcement
and my eyes look up with the wings of my neck
opening to the fight
and my arms open my chest despite the dark grey and blue colors in breathing space
my arms usually crossed in an X on my chest because it is so extremely hard
to hope
to leave the closed rooms and mental paths
to not cry about reality
yet the doors are thinner than my books
of dreams and emotions during dreaming
and my arms though so heavy have always been
creating, thin as the air, on the floor
painting uncrossed in the world or crossed in my mind
every color between black and white spreading, spreading my roots in the ground
Copyright Chelsea Palmer May 19 & 20, 2013
the lungs of a human being
tough short brave
tongue tasting the air clouds the storms the rain
wide feeling, the chest feeling bluer as wind ages it and writes on it
headed away from the end
to the hands
shadows of motion come through the nose
we neatly place down our tracks
because we know we are slow
but our lungs beat like boxing gloves
for our heart is away deep behind
the two-sided soul of depth and energy pushes everything,
the Grandfather Everything such light air you must run to feel it
our souls do it for us
the face of the soul is wind
spacing itself that way in the flat sky
spacing the breaths in it out
raining air in a lion's roar
wanting and feeling like a child
harnessing two wings of a dry old new back of a book
for the underside, the stomach, the words
to rise into being
Copyright Chelsea Anne Palmer Aug 5, 2013 About the soul itself. It was fun to write this on a Lightrail train
All the way
Down to the homemade earth
I feel and feel reality

Art is not a layer, it is the necklace on the neck
lacing the neck of the face
It has eyes it is so real it is a mirror
the child, all the way through the water to the most key most pure Nature
the deep so pure it is the most clearly brown
the light has never worn smooth and flawless, it is so dim so grey it is a shade of dark rock
it does not need beauty, it is beautiful
it does not need shielding, it is shaded from its mountain shadow
the land it's frumpy and a shade of dirt
the most thing is old
it is the most creative of us all, never drifting from little and big shapes
the sentiment, wonder, god will always taste it
he will not grow weary of the cliff view

they sky looks itself in the mirror
a bowl of ocean water
leaning over hands holding the east and west banks
Earth living on earth doesn't know
Earth tries to do the dishes there and sinks in
Sky chooses to wash his hands there instead of in the dirt
but discovers they are the same
Copyright Chelsea Palmer August 4, 2013
the world is breathing
a little north of the wide frigid cone, ice and creamy snow off the edges
constantly sighing, for more moist lips, coughing, cracking breaking even
singing gently for its soul to blink lighter
it has a wooden face
each breath creaks it open like a door
it looks straight ahead, everything in its mind, like through paper
no ghost, it breathes along in its path
the world is all functioning at the same time like wind
and when you're sleeping in Minnesota, most of the other Minnesotans are sleeping (or having trouble)
do you know the world is old
it's been doing this a long time
do you know when you're doing the dishes, someone's thinking they should be doing the dishes, and they see it visual in their mind, and you're the visual, which isn't important, but others things like this are
like eating, walking, and being with people who haven't died yet
so when you know this, you're not being selfish anymore
the nose of all the world is breathing
7 billion noses
if all of them looked at the sky at the same time
like the Americans on the fourth of July at night
we could not escape the existence each other.
And the stars and god would quake, shake in their tall knees
they look at our brains, as one in the round ball of the earth
and see it as a muscle
walking, walking, thousands of legs walking
the bulk, the brains the bulk of what's on their paths
their imagination a bulk of what's on their paths.
What if a gun was held to the world's head
It couldn't even die.
because it's so old
the world is a tree, the roots and the sky above
Time is beautiful what it has done
We're never where we want to be
But we're here, and there are 14 billion shoulders in the world
Brains needing less and further words
And there are 7 billion chins, breaths a little north
making a river
how loud it would be if we all breathed in the same room
And there are billions more flowers in the earth
at the same time
a long, long Garden
just kissing the air.
This is how the air has known us from the beginning
For so many people to keep circling in the air
For so many people to be putting breaths into it, kissing it
how he believes in us and wants us to move forward
only having productive thoughts
otherwise he would be suppressing a long, long river
which cannot really ever go back into the ground
our traces are everywhere
Copyright Chelsea Anne Palmer July 20, 2013. It was trippy writing this poem! I can't really say the word trippy because I've never taken drugs, lol, but I don't know what other word to use
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