between each breath, these
words hang
          floating
like balloons in front of their eternal
background. rising up and up
until the pressure is too great. until

the break in your words is too great
and no phrase can pull them together. that
place by the tip of the troposphere, or
whenever you pause and lose track.

sometimes i regret talking too much, and
other times i wish i let go of the string.

and i can't think of a more beautiful
moment, than when we connected; as
all moments that we shared before that
second, were lost in the dust.

the dust that rose from the road, as the
car drove off. it sailed high and dissolved
in the weight-less autumn air. the afternoon
sun filling the spaces in between the low clouds.

the dust which lay on his dresser, idle,
except when the gusts came through the vents, and
the cat pushed its head between the door and
the wall. or maybe, whenever that car returns.

does the tree really fall if no one saw the
cliche intro into the poem where
          its self=awareness is not;
new(s) to anyone except those who

see the strange simbols and mispellyngs
       .
did it really ;exists or swifts in this air
that movement of my poem. ending the re!
sentence right before the line

ends.(viceversaaswell). does art just
            steal from the originality that life
lacks? or do our questions stem from
a        false sense of identity in need           ing to

b
e
o
h

so
deep.

what are you(or what you always once were)other than
the twirl in the string and the root under oak. the
math in the pattern and the mirror beyond the reflection.

i feel i know no other(beyond my sentiments
of you, dearest)and the blanket of your soft touch. your
warm breath melting the ice caps of my sorrows.

you are the legs shared by men and table; the
frame yet the paint; the brick and the roof(
protecting me from myself);and the cloud of the rains.

you are the flash before death, you(and only
you)are birth, you are the reflection, you are the pen
but most importantly you are you(and no one other).

from his hand, the cotton folded,
and from hers, she spun rough string.
then from his, the letters bolded,
but from her tongue no songs to sing.

from his heart, he felt no pumping
her cuts and scrapes had not left marks,
from the wheel, he heard the thumping,
from her eyes, she looked as stark.

their posture spoke obedience,
with feet and arms that hurt as such,
in their thoughts, all fists were clenched,
though their souls felt cold to touch.

from his hand, the paper stolen,
and from hers, the same, again,
and in his mouth, the gums were swollen,
her eyes, a place always like fen.

“respect” their cold leader once said,
“is what you ought to have.”
their labor left them feeling dead,
and for this, he had no salve.

from the thread they harvested,
they sewed him his expensive clothes,
and once the laborers felt bested,
he raised his hand, more came in droves.

pause me at my cellar door,
            thwart my plans to descend;
the dog doesn’t recognize the moon in the sky,
            but only sees its simplicity reflecting across the water.

fire that arrow into the dark,
            we fear only what we cannot see.
speak until your lungs are gravel,
            no one can move your tongue but you.

i would like to                                            (one
awake in a valley                                         day)

so vast, its considered
the Guinness World

Record: Largest
Armory™, with all its

unsheathed blades
of grass.