You feel the thunder in my life
in the body of my world
you look at my forehead at my mind
you sigh at all the overwhelming pressure
information, words
you shake your brain, oh those Americans
you look at it like shelves, each person a library
you shut the door and say it's dramatic you know.
And the things you tell yourselves to push; the quotes
all the mouths that quoted the first time said what good words
but they're not just for your ears you know
you're a whole being, 80% of your 'body' is below your head
like holistic health providers say, it's not the North where we should go,
East West and South are the everywhere here
Remember your hands
like your grandparents' cooking souls
Remember your feet like your grandparents dancing souls in the 20s, even Catholics (it's true)
Remember the beat, the peaceful instrumental song without a black sea of letters on white, but a sea of movement, feet on a white kitchen floor
Instead of washing your soul in more words
the scribbles were by a full hand, dropping it across an entire shoreline, more water for the ocean
if you could only write in 96-point font, like in an ant's eyes, what could the poor swallow
we write with one of our hands, the tip of a pen a rocketing thing, and I just want an angel to cry on me
Remember Remember like your grandparents whose parents' words or Bible were seperate from a flat flat piece of paper
Hold it, a round thing, that goes in your mind, tangible and sweet
forget that your stomach fills like a penny jar, a mistake
sell the wisdom and buy everything
a pair of blue jeans with 2 pockets
so that you do not fill with pennies, so many words that lose meaning
and then when you sell everything to buy wisdom, your eyes will not be so eager and wide
and you will not be lost in the fortune of quantity

The pictures of us
are usually serious and plain
we usually don't have anywhere to go, just home
it's hard to find you, we're distant
but we don't write down our stories like it is and we are
as a child I do weird things over and over
but you laugh, and I hear it because you're the only one ever here
it's so sad they don't think you're alive
because we always do creative things together
and you look at my head
and pause
and just listen
and you choose not to judge me
even though you can
(or I'd hate you)
because you're right here
on the musical steps between us
piano keys, back and forth
they say we're all far, you there and me here, just as the world
the world seems so far- so far- so far from your door
but in the dark room of the world where no one can withstand the darkness yet it's all around
you can be connected with
they say it's not possible
closing is a verb not done, they're closed not opening
the creation of the reality believed
shut shut shut
But they cannot ******
They've made god their slave, they've taped his arms around his torso with concrete
Don't breathe
They've taken away any words he can say because they can't hear
But they haven't taped his eyes because they didn't think he had any
So he blinks
And he walks up and down, the stairs between us
'Distant' is his High school label
He breathes with his nose
And the 'distance' doesn't seperate him from the sky
water is the world, a huge ocean
where what you feel you know
you're always feeling, heavy water the world
your right brain is dominate
the world goes through you
then you leave the world in no possibility, stopped
you shut, shut, not productive
you're missing the sky
the sky is the most open thing
something in there is the freest
no one can shut the sky
anything above
like stars, sun, weather, heaven, god
and anything above can connect to heat
only flying things swim in the sky, feeling it
weird narnian creatures
normal people
fly with their hands
god touches open things
god has made stories with thousands of shut things
god teaches the black boxes on an island since he likes big spaces
god believes in impossibility, not shutting
because boundaries don't have to be permenant
but the stronger they are, they will never float up to the sky
so god lives in no broken glass
he blinks in the dark water of impossibility where no belief kills and kills any belief
we think that the way it is on earth is everywhere and up
but that is shut with a thousand locks
and heaven is in a garden.
who shuts that gate knowing it's boundaries?
you shut a different garden, with a thousand walls
self-proclaimed mayor of a city
and yourself the same way
Because of christian language that did ******
they stole millions of beloveds from god, and threw them back stone
all statues in a garden
unable
with a can or two
an angel on every stair
a personal word waiting in an exotic flower
on the dismembered grave
on the bird in a cage
on the artist in a box
motion quiet in the sacredness of a terrific soul alone
Rain making them colder than on redder skin, bluer stone without dark orange organs
Cold by the flowers
Pianos, better organs than any around, are stepped on like garden stone steps
Between the ground and any stairs up
steps just for unbuttoned sleeves over them
no wire around a wrist
steps for god, carefully quietly
steps for the one brother in the statues
the connection
the one brother of the three that uses his impossible hands to see

me and god ran once, together in the inanimate atmosphere on the spine of the ground
where our feet met the ground a lengthwise bookshelf faced beside
book spirits watching us around their spines, bookmarks
because I'm so a book without legs, since books don't have any
but I'm also a big wild cat away from my eyes with 2 letters in them
so we ran with our lids behind
since they're usually not only around my eyes
they sleep so many things
turn on the dark
and sleep me in a powerful action verb way
and people put garbage lids on god all the time since the christian mouth moved wide and round like a wavy hole
so we ran
until vapors inside us were running too
air running like the wind
animate not inanimate atmosphere
and my temperatue rose high because I was spending instead of falling
spending my atmosphere on the top of a book, where nothing is touching anything because it's air
My air in the air outside of myself over the top of paper
which isn't a place, isn't my head
it's the air, where only if you ran you're spending it
So we ran
and we ate breaktfast a lot
because when I sleep I want freedom like a tree with a sky too medium-high
and that day wasn't a 24-hour day
it's the day that lived in the days off my forehead
because me and god never ran while time happened
time happened first, and then I saw something had run through my soul because there was more air, space across a line from more ground
but I didn't know, like you don't know a movie you didn't see that someone else saw
like you live on the earth and don't know how big it is
like you live in your city and don't know there's a Lunds & Byerly's there, or a cute countryside, or a music concert every Wednesday at a nearby city lake
it was me and god
the air rang more alive because the big elephant in me stomped there with god once in a quick fashion
a big thing running
through my soul
on the earth of my soul
and I recognized the air
because someone else had been there besides me
Have I been to Indiana before? Oh yes, because Dad had to stop there on a trip once
An elephant cat I know was with, oh it wasn't my head
Oh I know Indiana!
I know this place, without my head!
The place where I could not land, so I ran
Dreamed
Silk brown Doing
Is this area, the air that became, because feet ran
That I can't comprehend But I know, because me and god ran once, here
So awake, So wanting to outrun the Air of Doing, And never Do here
So that when we ran though
we'd be doing in the Dark
where I'm never awake
Except, it didn't work
I'm always in my head
But at least about the boundaries I know so sharply – though I've never gone out,
a god and a big cat
have come in
and are in here somewhere

deleting collections of creativity from the internet

silver and white
it's gone
the flash went while spilling its growth
the more in it graceful as water
it came down carrying what looked like backpacks filled with even more
it's face is a bottomless house of levels
I've been thirsty for the trunk of a tree while it filled my mind
I finally felt bark like the neck beneath the leaves
and now it's the packs watering the streets in shades of silver for discovery
but a broom is sweeping them
since they look like trash
and silver shrunk its glitter after the sky said only he can hold a sea of lights
without having to carry each one
now I love beauty again
it used to be so catching that it would fall deeply against the ground
the rain in snow
the wet dew in and over photographs
sliding everything
but eyes down without music
in one song I am stolen
only one
the visual game is wood that burns by sight
I've spun in circles
But my eyes have slept in a bed not in a palace
Emptied their pockets on the table and my face
after some of the silver tried to form an elephant in my room
it is too much
I got away
and now I love beauty again
it's face used to be a blinding rocket peeling off more space to see
I finally stopped trying to catch up with it and watched it leave
leave me with all what it left me in bags
But a broom came by and is sweeping them around my legs
since most things look dim in the rain

the problem with my dreams
is that they are long pictures
not just long videos
they are emotional gold statues in a garden
not just dancers who's arms flow out
they are mouths that stay their tastes of water
not just songs feeling the canals through to the ending
they are arms sticking out of a box
not just feet muscles pressing on the pedals of daydreams
they are hearts scratching the glass of windows
not just a hand rotating a thinking wooden stick
they are knees near flattened ankles
not just bent elbows tensing and untensing punching down, writing on desks
until it's time to run smaller
they are a rotating big idea
inside a tree.
And the problem is they don't just make me feel ashamed
of dreaming again
they make me feel new
like the old ugly winter tree believes, and then on his old frame
new things beautify him
and it is only with the old and new
that I am so reverent so sacred so with tears in my eyes
about my dreams
and it is hard to know so much

Time and I don't sit together
at the end of day readings
where the old head of god bobs very slightly as he peacefully writes
and reads at the same time
remembering everything in a log
talking so slowly for the words to kiss me and time.
We avoid the eyes in our faces though while
We explore our bond collecting in our foreheads
A straight line binds us across the wind in the air
Across the papers of words
between us
He doesn't like the clock hands stuck in me, off such wingy arms
that don't have enough room in my chest to click around
My clock is always waiting for a bigger wall, for its arms to spread
and the energy cycle of the little go in there is like a skirt that doesn't twist when you turn
no color splashing the air at each little movement
My wing arms need me to lift out most of the feathers and turn
And then it'd be a better clock than time
I don't like his viscious breathing, and the colors on his wall only dark grey and blue
At least my wall is red
But I want to be friends
I want to take his hand and let the minutes come, behind us
I don't want to push the future far away     with my eyes on the rug
my shoulders fallen without feathers to be free
Please don't shred my slow dance rolling towards god's arms for him to make it lighter
I wheel in pain while I bend my broken knees to turn, of all your torture
It's a weighty golden skirt from all the fire
Love me first, then tell me something wise
And lighter than the heavy turning to the sides you've designed
Sit next to me in the middle of the story Grandfather clock
Then we will both be looking forward
Listening to the book of the long
Opening the folded air of today, tomorrow, and the ones that made them
Writing with a clock hand, and an eternity pen
Giving to us what we wait for
Lifting our names to move and make a turn
Me and time making the parting between the pages and the hill of them,
for several walls of clocks
several scars
several backs of life
a central spine strong enough to dance to the beat of so many more pages

Your effortless lungs take a chance while you draw in more breath like room, to branch into white air
Awake eyes sharpen your joints' old gold and your neck twists like an earthy stem, soft in the air
the ocean of clear air brushes back its weightless arms for you are its paint
motion and sounds are fresh in color and drip, like the rushing of pine trees in the airiest blue and at dim blue, and your silver breaths each one perfect in the moment above in the sky
the air darkens wide where you've gone clear from colors, after the day washes into night
your heart was the wings ahead of the sky itself, and its the night blue wearing your back now
you are heavy within with breath and the sky opens your lungs and rolls in, because she rolls trees
and her lungs turn to ashes the brown leaves, on grounds that hold the trees in every change in the sky
the folded layers of earth billow out with every new big wind above because it's a sphere, a round bed
you are tossed and turned, you sleep, cry, believe, and exhale

Red fire wakes up at night and curves tall with flowing ends, roaring across the blind sphere
running just past the edges and rims of rivers and trees windows
pushing forward in a plain north, rings of black and light turning to their sides on their arms
black trees open their throat and swallow, and stars burst inside
for stars chase the soul and with great wind kiss the diamonds in the walls, or glow rich brown color
and emerald leaves that make a ringing sound