The mind is like an unapart book with a bookmark. Words surround where you are; thoughts. They are written on your hands. You feel them. They are inside two sleeves. All of them. The book is you. The walls surrounding within hear the words and their ears respond in ink. The walls are thin paper that never are as blank as slight movement from the wind, only always catching stick figures, shot like fingers. All of you moves and touches paper all around you. You are weighted down in ink. The present moment between dreams practicing in that mind. That mind alive and thinner than one stroke, briefer than lines from the fast belly curves of your heart. Moving.

Tree,
your veins are in your earth
my veins are inside me
the years are old in you and your leaves are fresh
you remind me of the tree part in my right foot
My bedroom's in the bushy head in my mind in my solar brain,
my ankle is the shoulder to the stumpy central branch of my leg
heavy layers of red aged mountain, my earth is the most pages
the place where nerve lines swim again young immortal creases through thousand piles
a networking for only the soul, the mind, the heart
geometric thoughts that string out the tongue
making crosses between finished rock, hardness too late and fresh like skin
I am more inner than stone, thinner, longer, loopier
nerve lines tiny things turn into staffs in the air in my arms
different than tree parts I am rimmed and mudding with water
my rippling veins at the bottom of my foot, is the surface of my sea upside-down
I bet you feel good I'm calling your earth the sky
I am full of stuff, the way dirt packs together to create things without hands
and your earth is where some of my veins should stand up too
I am always alive like you
the lines in the earth of me and my earth holding up the living wooden door
standing from my ankle
walking on the earth like my veins are not there
like you stand on the earth like your veins aren't even there
yet you are the earth, brown and green
and you base the earth starry
swimming in the deep black earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tree has grown very slowly in my bones
inside my fingers dark paint thicker than my fingerbones
a mess of sticks inside cloudy bushy leaves
brushing the ground from the top
long strong pieces inside creak
it is the foundation and strength
sturdy pops in the musical hearts of old pianos.
the oldest things are trees
you can hear their waists without hipjoints standing in the wind each year
they always sound hard and alive
wood is lightly round and around and thick
the color of coffee and light cream
they are oldest because of the new leaves
significant colors from ugly knobby wrists
the wind in them sends a slow s freshly
a strong lullaby that touches low height
grounding the air and my legs.
A tree has grown in my bones
my legs curve in heavy waves and gravy in the ground
and my face that twists on the trunk of my neck
is the back of a chair for a bird's pillow
the sight of a bird looks like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so while it sits
is feels like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so they are free on the sides of my house
whispering into my mind
on my branches because only something
with foundation deep
and brown
can have ears where wind blows through
tall enough in the air for the mind to breathe
my mind bending up from pressing out to breathe for me
a nest where bones and milk press freely through the leaves

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

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

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

What if water were made of flowers
the air on the lake would smell like thick honey
they would be taken up onto strings
and put around people
Everyone would be beautiful
And there would be so many different kinds that could cover the sky
everyone would cry
An old man would smile at all the people
Children would be flowing like nature
thinking someone has given them a gift
Their thanks being in how much life they feel
A homeless person would tie a garland into a bow
and put it on a bench
Women would make patterns holding them near the face
God would blush

Tall people would think flowers look like hands around the sun
Heads would need hats and skin would sunburn while petals
would run down with the waves of one pair of eyes
the stem planted in one heart
if taken rips staying in the background
a beautiful beloved bouncing in a thieve's bag
A hundred treetops combing their inner crown with the brush of their lowest arms
A ballad would play for the reflection of beauty in a mirror
the reflection of skin, in water
We are skin
If water were flowers the reflection would be God
And we the image of God
God would blush

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

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

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

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

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