Stick straight trees line hills, their arrangement phony
less than 5,000 feet in elevation but elevating humanity for over
sixty thousand.

For more than sixty thousand human beings,
think of fish stuck, are stampeded by shiny black
blocks of detonation.
Explosion for extraction, and teeny tiny port-o-potties
sit, enjoying relaxation where an ecosystem once
enjoyed rehabilitation after March.

We Marched on, up a gravel hill where wind
blew but we bolted our boots to the soil.
Sunglass-clad woman concealed her hurt eyes,
but her voice hurt enough to inspire a kind of
throat retching sensation.

***** up that black, ooey-gooey  you old, weathered mountain top.
Explosives like a firm finger shoved down the throat
denote a rock spew; regurgitate and repeat a dozen times over.
Flatten and deform, never to reform
the water-giving, life-renewing, shady shelter, stable
stool, magic majesty of my mountain.

Underneath a small lee in the park,
she tapered down so small; sapling pine tree.
Furled a wool blanket like a tootsie roll
used as a pillow and rolled into sleep.

Scene-by-scene dreamed of bedroom encounters
enacted on beds of flowers.
Remembered the words of harmonica blowing boys verbatim
as the dream shifted scene for half an hour.
And a small, four-leafed local sage man came at an importune time
and to write her a note.
Succinctly and politely bargaining with her;
"Would you give up lust for pure reason?"
Turning away briskly, she glanced toward a stump
sat down for a ponderous sixty seconds.
Slowly standing, eyes regal and demanding
she wrote back "no, I won't"

Shiver and shake and she's suddenly awake
power walking to a house near the river.

Sketchpad sans the sketches.
Instead, let the breeze ****** you.
Faded yellow, dusty lime, seventies orange flowers zooming in and out at you.  

Naked, bland eyes,
grainy, grease-skin,
too tight of pants and cold feet.
Shudder on the precipice.  

Who were the main characters in my life?

With the right light,
natural ponds of blue,
young-maiden skin,
loose skirt and **** feet
jumping off the precipice.

A doe ran across the road
and I rode without looking up
until I noticed, that we rode side-by-side.

Twenty, thirty seconds
we peered into each other’s eyes
in unison.  Looked straight ahead and then to my right.

And She crossed the path
two moving meters in front of my wheels.
Then again, we glanced back and forth between focus and fascination.

No wind, vibrant orange-juice sun,
and a dear, deer friend humming,
“I'm here."

Released in full.
Booming, thrashing, moving around, impenetrable.
Unrequited oxytocin.
Breathing out of mouth and nose.
Hormonal inspiration, and sensations that are insatiable.
Creativity blooming out of pleasurable pain.
Emphasis on the pain.
The unsatisfied, insatiable, pain.
Distracting and sickening but most of all,
more than anything,
freeing.
Allowing, and being.  
Human beings are ****** beings.

Insatiable, and me
all I can do is step
toe to toe in my room.

And feel, with all my might
the ******* that will wound.
But salt the wound, with continual
praise and remembrance.

Like a church all filled and all screaming, saying out.
"Amen."
Ah, men.
With dark hair, and deep grins and pictures next to bicycles.
Mix c.d.s and please, please, please.
Me, I'm the tease.

The unconscious mind can wander seamlessly through eight hours of time.
Searching, mending, forgiving, DMT-ing.  
Stir slightly dear, but don’t dare face the other direction.

“Let’s go outside,”
I say, but my suggestion flutters around your ears and dissipates into the air.
You sleep, you’d sleep all day if I’d let you.

Up and down, climb down from your parents bed
and crunch, crawl, creep, creak on wooden floor.
Hoping to wake you.

Forward seven months, and still sleeping every night.
Sleeping and moving accordingly with new loves.  
Draping arms and then later, struggling to remember a face.

The men sleep silently, quietly, without cease.
Never wandering or wondering or nervous.
Not self-conscious, fully comfortable.  

I sleep uneasy, unsure, and maybe uncomfortable.
Wanting, then pushing away, then wanting.
Sleep alone, then, you say.