I ask for direction but only the spirit knows,
the semantic is lost in one ritual or another subroutine.
We breath in violable biology to voice a movement
that joins u to me and together we point there,
somewhere without realizing that I consciously exhale.
A relaxed breath in but two ways out.

There is no committee nor panel of experts,
endless discussions, of morality of us all;
There is only me deciding how to exhale,
which way to breath out.
There is no wrong or right, only the slow,
controlled, submissive, submission vowels
or short, percussive consonants full of sound
and fury signifying the falling
golf *****, scattered on off-target greens,
a lawn of flamed bogeys.

A brief pause in silence aftermath, memories
of honored and vicious executioners
before I pick up the next eddie current,
the next randori in forgotten volume,
in brownian space, in distance maai,
in movements unthinkingly remembered.

There is one distance or diameter through the center. There is only one D. Cir equals two pir or just pid, big D with e's pie-eating smile. If you look at e'm askant you can see how the i's drop out in a furtive way to leave only cr/p.

E wears cr/p as a badge of honor on e's tee. It's how e chooses to identify with the infinite Volume. Pir or pid, both are too circumspect. D quantifies directly, but really E's just two r or r as a diminutive D half step down.

As a minor E didn't fly. Twice promoted now, D is much happier as a major, three quarters of a Volare. E gets to fly three quarter skies with three roots dug deep, deep down twice into the sunken earth, a visceral connection to a Cantare.

Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe.  Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.

A morning hum
from the heater
rushes my warm
January winter
in Baltimore just
a month before.

Past sits alone
at Millie's table
while Ed sleeps.

I write compressed
time late at breakfast
table, too early
after driving
up work's hill, daily
pass February
sunrises.

It's really happening.
The leftover boxes
from the last moves
are being filled up again.

Enigmatic handwriting
across shipping tape, remnants
from another script
being lost in translation, somehow
scrawled on the wall, understood
and turned meaningless
as paper, shirt, and souvenir
change places,
coalescing in another box
or completely vanishing
behind a dividing line.

It's time to say goodbye
to so many things.
Long goodbyes,
thru work days
and youthful nights
when all added up,
too short to catch
my breath.

wearing champagne
moist circle
of green salty lips
a concrete glass
girl pierced
throbbing dirt
red bone