Bayonets that shatter
with ****** clashing:
a war waged solely for the self.

Without help,
Without the continued aide of those once wise.

Now we battle for something greater than ourselves -
individuality falls by the wayside;
morning fog fades from humanity's mural.

No great dividing line,
no false romance of identity

                - fluid -

the way of water through rapids.
separate and yet whole.

We fight for the entirety this day,
without ever once seeing the landscape
of shared belief.

Quiet, comforting;
a somber mind is fractured,
but wholly serene.

I remember how that Puxatony dirt
felt between my fingers. Gritty
and cold – the earth that covers  graves.
Falling from my palm, landing at his paws,
he curled around my leg, shivering.
Against my ankle, he rested his long ears.

Polaroids of a mothers chew-toy earrings;
memories of March spent playing in *****
backyards, forests, and playgrounds. We shivered
together, in the heat of Spring, with gritty
rock-filled driveways underneath our paws.
Lives, those playful daisies sprouting from gravel,

that we ate day by day; pushing graves
down out of mind, but spilling from our ears.
The summer wrought steel cages to grip awe,
with training meant, bent to destroy dirt
kept caked on worn-out sandals. Grits
scooped off a breakfast plate to a shivering

dachshund. His collar jingled, shimmering
as it clashed against his bowl. Cold gravy
and dry cat food, with textured scents. Gritty,
furry, and harsh. Ears dipped in water bowls
finding the only bath of the month, clearing dirt
from a death in the family. Soft, unknowing paws

treaded with grace, and a parentless pause
as we crumbled. Directionless grief shivered
the big men with their shrunken hearts, *****
from a three-hour drenching sob at the grave.
But love is not measured by the size of loss -
it is made of highs and lows; rough and gritty.

Seven pounds of compassion weighs with gridded
precision on my chest. Those tiny paws,
batting at my heart. Soft, two-times-too-large ears
crying with us and pleading through shivers
to enjoy everything. Now your graves are dug
together - between you only a foot of dirt.

Gritty reality seeps in from shivering
fiction. Your paws on your own grave,
I place my ear to the dirt, and whimper.

I pull the down blanket over my burns -
body separates from mind, locked to Earth,
held tight against material concerns,
rest awaits overworked tendons of worth.

Body separates from mind, locked to Earth.
When the spirit drifts into reverie,
rest awaits. Overworked tendons of worth-
while masses reject reality, every

drift into reverie. When the spirit
sings an ethereal subconscious spell
of masses. While reality rejects wit
for surrealism and fortune bids farewell

to an ethereal subconscious spell. Sing
against material concerns, held tight
against fortune and surrealism.
Over these burns, we pull the blanket down.

Seduced by silence,
               she’s set down;
                              sunlight soaking
                                             her snowy, silken, skin.

                                                          ­                 Spots softly speckle
                                                         ­                  the sanctuary floor.

Sensual stillness succumbs
               and split seams surround,
                                seeping sangiovese
                                             from those supple lips.

                                                          ­                 Chelsea smiles,
                                                         ­                  and subsides,
                                                       ­                    to a scarlet estuary.

This rolled growth of sweet Mother Earth,
now between my fingers I hold
her breath, bated, much like my worth.

Barefeet and barebones, renewed dearth
of repose, sanity consoled
by role - growths of sweet Mother Earth.

I’ve worked sweat from my brow, my girth
diminished. Love sits in green bold -
her breath, baited, much like my worth.

We consume each other. Rebirth
my sunken pulse from mellowgold,
this growth of mother. Rolled sweet earth,

up in smoke around Cheshire mirth.
With numbed senses, today I’ve sold
my bated breath, much like her worth.

And so we journal language, like Firth,
while The Sativa Saint extols
this rolled growth of sweet mother earth,
her breath, bated, much like my worth.

Folding on itself,
a childhood inkblot,
symmetrical map.
Neverland student.
Neverland syndrome.

Neverland client.
Neverland business.
Buying memories
with ageless coins in
fifty year-old hands.