Salmon egg red
Is liter then
The hiiden color
Purple.

Letters of love.
Show me the barrier
That seperates continents.
Will I know
The oceans sink
The love I send.
Wrap me up in glue
And seal the words
I love you in the conflict.
Lonley is the sour milk
On my desk.
The smell of socks rotting
In the wrestlin room.
Brings back the yoga from moorakas.
Make me fresh like a corpse of
Dead chum.
Fill my heart in a river from the
Red eggs I killed and gave to
Crab fishermen.
The heads are open with clear kelp teeth.
Unwind the widdower who says
To punture her lungs with a knife.
He knows the pain and conflict
When she breaths to die.
Snap a picture to tells us 100 feet
From air yeilded a 25 pound trophy.
The stranger lets us watch his knife
Open a rare white chinook.
The fire we watch was gutted and rinsed
In a metal sink.
The deeper we dig into flesh
The more we see war.
But the smell of salt water
And white bones
Feeds fresh souls.
And smokes our dreams when the red metal who
Holds hickory ambers.
The solitude is unforgiven when I
Die in dreams.  
Therfore I wake up next to
The chunks and blood red wine
As though gun shots provide reflection.
Back pack with me in empty meditations.
And understand we all must progress
Into the conflicting heart,
And see what cardiac death
Hides behind the scary last breath
Of euphenasia in my mind.

There are times we must slow down
And start the old process
Like writing with a pencil
In a marble slate with college ruled lines.
We begin to see the truth
And realize how easy it
Is to say our imagination
Is complex.
But the words are easier
Said then done.
We will grow and pass
The shades in our livingnsoul.
To see reality isnt as bad as it seems.
We all must work
Theres no way around work.
But the real job is discovering
Your own past in a way
That shapes us into
The person we see
While we walk alone.
The meditations are faulty.
But once  in a while
The greatest thing possible happens.
You become deffiant
To human nature.
And keen to the way
The world looks
And you see your self
Chasing dreams
Like a child
Looking for the ball
Lost in someone elses yard.
Have the guts to get everything back.
Before the loss Is to great.There
Before the ball forgets
You the child are to old
To ride bikes and to old
To hear the newest changes
Through the young mind
That died in the old body.

Pure whey protein tub.
Lets make boys body builders.
Gym memberships rise.

The mating dance changed
My testicles move a train.
Will you be my wife?

To pelt the world in ice and graves.
To feel how quiet this part of town feels
When the lites turn on we will not sleep.
We will not dream of anything tonite
We will run like the chinook salmon runs
To flood the world in rivers alive
With pain the pain of peace.
The pain after loss.  
What will come here when the hedges pop
Out like boxing gloves.  
Out of me is songs apollo sang.
Out of him and I we dance with
Wounded leggs.  And prove
How sweet salt tastes on gashes of death.
How sweet to taste imortality when
The cars speed.
What now is a world full of saints.
To fill markets with fresh fish.
And throw the bottles of whiskey
Where they belong.  Where they are warm
Proves how hot my sweater gets when my
Forhead clams up.
My scarf unwraps and we run
With out our cloths down pearl street.
Let there be muse forever on feet and side walk.
We mustnt forget why we break free from
The shakles of eternity.  
The horrible shakles of wild life.
Are finally pure gold.
The softest medal to bend.
And we leave the tempting
Medal behind and choose to
Drink the rain  drops.

That art of fuge
Let bach rise in
The grass the neihbor
And I are mad for.
The top of my longues.
Every inch in my gut the air
Escapes with the scream
I saw this morning.
The lonly seagull flying
Over blue waves
Moves to fast to paint
The muse on sail boats
Searching fornwind.
The wind to go north.
Towards the border
Of new places.
The heart im told
Explains my metaphoric soul.
But from the angle I saw
Captured me with music.
How mad was john clare
When he saw the whole entire world.
He wasnt crazy
Im crazy to ingore
The muse.
The moonlite sonnata
And day breaking dawn.
Where the trees dead rings
Tell me thirty years ago
My mother saw six feet of snow
And she was glad.
Wennever can get tired
When we act like children.
The liberation hears every
Seed in a pink lady apple.
We were born to feel
The colors of art.
We were born to die in
The irony of death.
We came out with the ego
Of a thousand parrots
Repeat what youve learned and
Heard.  Give it to the universal
Brahma of creation.

No more komakazee crows
No more angry nehibors and
Their apple guns.
No more slow winks.
No more toilet bowls
And no more ham.
No more wet hair after a shower.
No more drooling on my face.

Remember that **** dog.
Remember you and him kissed like eskimos.
Remember sleeping in my train tunnel.
I wish I still played with trains.
I wish I still played euphonium.
I wish we never lost our house.

My old friend, is it time for me to go away.
You were the last.
The last pet mom ever will own.
She told us no more animals.
She cried tonite,
She said im so sorry soxy.

A longntime ago
A longtime 6 hours in school felt.
A long strected out cat
Waited for us on the steps.
I rubbed my face in his glossy chest.
I rubbed my third grade nose up and down
His body hoping for a play bite.
His tongue licked my ears three times,
Three times until he took a bite.
My hands resembled the bird,
The bird he never killed.
He turned me into a contortinist.
He made  my leggs cramp.
He made my matress his middle ground.
His middle my yoga sleep.

After showers he hunted my head.
He layed on my face.
He licked my dripping buzz cutt.
He licked the milk off of my first mustache.
He ruined the left over ham.
He made my favorite sandwhich
A challenge.
He could smell me open the can and mix the
Mayonase with pickles.
He left me a dead mouse on my train tracks.
He had white drops of paint on his paws.  
White furry paint,
Mom told us he had sox on his feet,
He was born with the name we gave him
Sox not socks,
Not the socks you get tired of wearing.
Not the socks you get mixed up durrning laundry.
Our sox kept us on our toes.
Our sox.
The **** cat
That really owned our house.
Hell always be sox,
The **** cat,
The **** voice my brother made up.
The **** drool I let rub against my face
Will never go away.  

Ill kiss him like an eskimo.
Ill biuld him a eskimo fire
And hope he chooses to
rub noses with My dog J.C again
I hope he goes gently into the nite (Dylan Thomas).