I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into  fiendishly handsome toreadors.

I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct.  Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.

i pity words
because words try
they try to communicate in the most intimate way possible
having all these different words pertaining to different degrees of emotions, feelings.
And by having different genres,
like being descriptive, scientific, or conversational,
but it’s always unto the ability of two people:
the conveyor,
if the words would come off strong, or strong enough
or nonchalant, or nonchalant enough
and
the receptor,
if the words are to be processed, understood, wholeheartedly
or to come in one way and out the other
and it’s always different.

you see,
words try, but they’re a medium,
and there are other avenues of expressing ones emotions,
those of which are underlying,
which can’t be articulated.
when you speak words,
it contains tone, diction, and emphasis,
which printed words try to mimic
by various styles like
italics, bold, or underlines,
but they can never quite imitate
shifting eyes, twitches
the waver in your voice, it’s depth,
you, running your hand through your hair,
or having fidgety fingers,
and your legs never seem to stop shaking.
All of this steals the spotlight off of words,
and I wonder, what do all of these things mean?

so far, so great, & the promise
of so long lingers on tomorrow;
hung on tenterhooks, staggering
sparks run through the early hours
as realisation hovers. that only less
than the length of a week, now, may
hold my consignation to this side
of another stretch of soil, another
long dream.

& everyone i've ever and never met
will look up at stars the same, but
all my constellations, bent n mirrored,
will flare up and light out footstep
patterns like eye-blink,
surveying all that was lost and found.

but, for now,
gales whip up a storm outside,
like the electricity planted
in my gut. another
momentary awakening.

I don't work,
in the usual sense,
and I won't ever
do other's bidding
again, but many do
(I had not thought
death had undone
so many) and they
wear me out.
Mornings away,
afternoons home.
In between,
nugatory labors.
It is exhausting
to consider and
makes me want
to take a nap.
I'm weary
in general
and drowsy
in particular
and have
a great notion
to depart this
aeonian hell
of automatons
and hebetude
for some place
where birdsong
and sunlight
and kisses
are work enough.

~mce

today a dark 
sky is
   wrapping
itself around
my town,
squeezing
    all that
surrounds
in its strong
muscular
   hands, one
solitary crow
    manages
to slip free,
flies over
highways,
      streets
& trees,
I watch it
enviously as
it disappears
thinking
what I
would do
      for a pair
    of wings