We're in the sun and I'm moving from your mouth
to your jeans, we're watching the stars and we're moving
We're going down the green boulevard and we're cruising
you speak Romanian, I speak you, we're going to far
and moving to the beat as one and the wind blows the hair
in my face and I got news for you, I can see you just clearly
as I could before, carefully, barely hanging on and catching movies

I can't keep away from your kiss, back and forth want to feel
the rest of you and all of you can't wait to catch you all alone
we're in the sun and I'm moving from your mouth
to the hole in your heart, tell me how you feel and who you are
you speak barely, your rhythmic breaths tell me all I need to know
waste the day and spend all the time in your pockets, all alone
floating around your head and hanging midair in your palms like
a red balloon

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

earth boy.
air conditioned and living.
/or
following the light of something far from home.
begin:

old town and lovely she.
loved she.
love she like there is no other she.
the one and only she.
she dumps him.
finds a new he.
has *** with the new he in a far corner apartment complex peak
beyond the tracks. train.
troubles;
like screeching howls of love spit and ****, city
at midnight.

he buries his hopes and face in pie
at the café
volta.

new her,
wiping the counter calm yet tired yet cute and soon to close shop.
she tells him -
about the keys of lost lovers.
the doors to remain open for the sake of dreams and all possibility.
she tells him -
of the pies at the end of the night.
the cheesecake and the apple pie
/entirely gone.
the peach cobbler and the chocolate mousse
/almost gone.
but the blueberry pie, always
/untouched.

he’ll have that.
some sort of broken in the heart have that/love that/eat that/pie.
they talk for hours.
he rests his head on the counter and sleeps
icecream on his lips.
she almost kisses him right there.

and she remembers him.
attempts to call him while he’s in memphis
/or
some other southern city.
he's on somekind of journey.
he works kitchens for more money to motion further west.
westward sweat and burgers. see/saw.
little money, little love, little city
and onto the next.

she remembers him.
attempts to call him while he’s deeper into the glowing desert dome
/or vegas.
/or, you see the stars above?

she writes him letters.
and he writes her back, and in return, they fall
toward a thought, a light, a lit-up little idea of life full
on good something.

return.
to new york and old scents. old town.
corner apartment complex peak window and memories of a once-was
girl.
beyond the tracks. train.
troubles no more.
return/
to pie.

to café and concept
of sweet-tooth, sweet real something, sweet blueberry nights
and icecream.
and there she is.
with warmer winter/spring smiles than even dreamt.
and her words for hours.
she almost kisses him, but kisses him.

something perpetual
is love.

montana yellow dress, the highway looked bitter sunday fit.
she knew the land given,
land taken,
thunder walking west.
met a friend. stopped to talk.
he was a holy kid or dog, both songs of kindness.
trickster cool mountain calf
waiting for the water promenade.
deep creek good old boy swimming smiles,
rose up
and shot like bang with the buzzard sioux feathers.
truth is low clouds flashing, dreams burst
in the earth room.
doused sheets of chaparral and canyon grass
a pretty laughing bird.
wet things watch the water-log, and a frog spits whiskey.
charter bus barefoot leather and a father says kids, smell the hammer,
see the hammer touch its words into the world.
work-tale living, fools bled.
river gal cut, oh
fishing.

I'm standing on the icy head of a barge, all rusted to ****. P.J. (the lead deckhand) and I wait patiently with frozen line tearing at our shoulders. We're far away from the buzzy, groaning engines of the Mary C tug, and all I hear is the water being pushed out of our way.
        "What direction is that?"
         "Up river?"
         "Yessir".
          They call rope line. To me it's always been rope and I don't care to call it something else. But they've made it clear, "it is and will always be referred to as line". It'd be nice if terminology was the only thing that ruffled these country boys feathers. Who knew they'd be so strict?  And do I really need a question mark if it's rhetorical?
         I'm on a boat. It's 6:30 a.m., or as they say back home "early as ****". Sun's poking through the trees and it makes that gentle floating snow a bit more detailed. I stick nervously to the rim, but only because I'm new. It isn't worth pretending to be comfortable, at least not on that thing. Besides, falling in the water is basically equivalent to dying here. The safety videos stressed that. Although, they also swore that a crew will alert you to "watch the bump!" whenever hitting up against something. That's not a real thing though. A lot of the **** we watched isn't real. I'm indifferent. After all, I didn't chase a boat to feel comfortable.
          In my heavy-hearted moments, pessimism takes a whack at everything I put faith in. I reject myself and challenge every step that lead me to unhappiness. Big, big questions toss and turn inside my head, and they try to convince me to run home.  It happens.  
           But I'm happy right now, just seeing the sunrise and being surrounded by all these strange factories puffing out clouds.  It's probably all bad, toxic stuff.  Sometimes it's not worth digging into negative realities. For now, they're factories that make clouds for us to enjoy.  P.J. and I both lit up a cigarette and he asked me why I was smiling.  
           "This is a pretty cool job. I mean, what a way to wake up".
He spit casually off the side, down into the water.
            "You aint lyin".

I like old glass
with bubbles

Pockets of breath
of the dead laid to rest

I break and I breathe and I taste

Their spices
and vices

Kisses from wives
Curses and verses

Songs of themselves
Wine of their wrath

Salt from their baths

Smoke from their fires
Sweet tastes of desire

Shared sighs and cries
Dead butterflies

Air.

She is my everything
if i wanted to get her a wedding ring  
i would have to sleep on it
she has supported me though the rough and the bleak
comforts me and watches me sleep  
but people wonder how i can have a relationship so discreet
with girl who only talks in creeks  
only loved when in these sheets
she's felt every inch of my body
witnessed me do any hobby  
and even though im a little sloppy
she waits to lay with me
and even though ill go from ocean to cactus
across the globe and threw the atlas  
you will always be
My love  
My dear  
My mattress