you're on my mind
let me lend you my shadows
let me give you the crannies to sit in a while
and contemplate this kind space called life
because i don't mind the layers that you made on top of my skin;
they kept me a special kind of warm.
I can still feel you from here.

Let that whisper reach you through the depths of my ribs
they rub together like the horse hairs played on a violin
so coarse and yet so finely tuned.
let it lay across them until we pluck the plainest melody that
we have yet to hear because we are too young.

It takes 200 strings to make a proper bow. A violin is a genius saw;
It cuts kind of deep, stroking until we shiver into sleep.

The blue pales white above the echoing horizon
Seen fourth times, edifice, sea, wire, sky
Venture, traveller, approach him at last
The air blazes all approaching, stabbing the sense
Palpable is none among you, gliding through
The streets, the cars, those striking titans lining
The eclipse, shivering white cloud on cemented bone
Lackadaisical walk, breezed by wind into drowning
Dusk, when the aching red pours, staining blue, lost

Our sky vibrates, oscillating, drums on sea
Vision blurred, though it seems natural, myopia
Taken by the Pan, made real on nature
Isochronal to all around, who watch in vivid gawp
Neither spectacle, sight nor sear, means much to other
The world breathes, not to ignore, or worry
As clouds drift on, through the rose-bleach
The animal clings into itself, all moves toward
Horizon, a carnival to unknown spots beyond sky
Denizens to the untouchable, we onlookers know

if you only eat from a feedbin you have a limited number of grain

kafka said the leopards would become part of the ceremony but no matter how many nights like this I keep waking up with
out any wild animals
or rather, any sense of the mystical rhythm that surely guides
deviations from this steady alpine path.
today when I got off the bus in Arequipa
I realized that some people look up to the mountains, even in summer, and always see snow.  
and some people don't.
and this is the way it goes?

I dreamt South America would provide a release onto the page, and my words would set at least a dozen feet free
but the more ******* I buy the more I realize that all I strive is to feel tired
deserved or no
and to lift my head and see snow.
and some people don't.
and this is the way it goes.

Drooling from pharmaceuticals,
and being told what's beautiful.
Recklessly using our mandibles,
and idolizing party animals.
No time to get personal,
Cuz I must go out and buy the product being scammed on this commercial.

Back.

Intelligence being blinded by fear,
So many don't pay mind, too full of beer
and confused why they can't see clear,
or even eye to eye with their closest peer.

Time spent pointing fingers
and wondering why "bad luck" lingers.
A society high on measurements and value measured by possessions.
The "Iwant" society diseased with obsessions.

Sold opinions with television and magazines,
Never realizing the atrocities behind the scenes.  
More psych evaluations and pills to swallow,
Or open love connections and spirituality to follow?

Many homeless, while uninhabited homes shows a higher amount.  
Pop-culture won't show ya, can the counter-culture even count?  
Fatty fast food paired with fast athletes, just to get a meager billion some dollars. 
There's still time to change though, which is why we need to bother.
 
Too cheap to buy selfless items, well then at least pay attention.  
See me for clarity, there's a wealth of info I didn't mention.

Never the woman,
always the other woman.
She-poets have sung of it since
they first gave words
to the wet knot of their hearts.

The consolation prize, the late-comer
who must be the one to wash his
***** hands. Not a goddess but
the amazon who presses on his
body’s weakest points. The villainess.

The other woman has no power.
He doesn’t need to know her name,
her fears, which books made her cry as
a girl. He already has his golden idol,
but he wants a clay vessel on the side.

He doles her out careful smiles under
pinkblue bar-lights or in smoky kitchens.
He tells her yes you’re beautiful
but I’ve got a better one at home still
can I see the shape you make in my bed?

And she is hopeful and lost
but finds his arm and lets herself be led.
Never the woman, but a girl who
plays games in the mud, dirties her dress,
blacks out her face, her soiled lips.

And women speak of the other woman
like she is a crow above their doors.
Watching them make their love
through greedy eyes while
nursing her barbed and tangled heart.

Shall I compare thee
to a summer's day?

No.

Because ********.