Mystery of the vanishing hills along the old silk routes.
near unused spirit houses i saw a church.
at my feet i noticed the minor compartments lie in
where the Spanish rancheros once lived and worked.

Golden fleece of dixie,
beyond wind shaped cypress trees of giants and dwarfs
aquamarine water gently washes, trapped by falling tide,
a herd of whales meets death ashore

bishops had thrown out all the devils,
man with ginger colored hair and chocolate skin,
decorated with intricate tattoos
from high in the air on the island
i crossed a channel to another part

oh yes, the spirit houses remain
but hiking trails lead to streams
valley in a winter mood; photograph
the wrinkled and gently contoured mountains

for four days we wandered
monks hope the disillusioned, skeleton of the ox.
somebody knew, i was coming.

there was a cool and damp electric hum
i heard outside my ear
and in the sky, hung high above my mind,
a pulsing breathing thing

in quick repetition and in pace with the sounds
of an uncharacteristically chilled evening
i could see the stars as they were
i could see myself as i am

and the world was right
but only in that moment.
i turned away, but for a blink,
and the earth had turned, hiding away,

our moment shared in time

whence you rested neatly,
betwixt mine arms so dearly.
no longer; farewell, forevermore.

seriously, where the **** did you go?

Say Florida in the cellar
speak flowers where cool and dark
close your eyes, wander through the library
smell the age of knowledge
touch the fading thoughts

Say Florida in the morning
speak soft for sake of caution
walk toward sound of flutes and fury
dance to unheard anger
die for woodwind rhythms

watermelon patch of bedlam
gourds of organic mess
vines in search for foundation
with flowers in full bloom

green with bristles of transparent shivs  
dirt that's aged from years of acidic drift
humid rainfall drums above this night
pooling inside my garden of life

the fallen rot, inside to out
but birds and bugs will gorge
and feed upon this ever restful seed
to clean this rotten pool inside my garden

toes touch preening green
brushing bushing basil
smelled of sweetest scents
summer in the morning

sunshine in a teardrop
cicadas in the moon-glow
nicotine nights, tobacco tearing teeth
insects breeding ringing sound

picasso floats within the tall oaks
boring beetles breaching dead birch
death-strokes sounding like your voice
mirrors filled with portraits i do not know.

when i let go of the idea of myself
i make room to hold onto others.

when i hold onto others and they let go of me
i find myself reaching out into nothing.

searching, grasping, reaching.