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.