The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

A Secret

I’m gonna say something to you that’s gonna sound crazy--
and you’re gonna want to walk away.
and you’re not gonna want to see me ever again.
But I have to tell you this,
because, in the past--
I let people walk away from me before I said this;
and I can’t let that happen with you.
I want to kiss you
I want to kiss you so bad, and
I don’t even care if you want to be kissed.
I wanna hold you right here
and rest my head on your shoulder--
‘cause in the same way that I’m holding you
you hold me,
and it completes a cycle of mutual affection that will eventually
grow into something bigger.
Something that I’ve always felt for you, but you may not feel for me
and that may sound strange, ‘cause I’ve just met you
but I feel this way for everyone that’s open to the world
that’s open to the possibility that someone out there may love them
more than they love that person.
You need to know that I love you, and that will never change.
If you want to ask me how I feel about you,
I will always tell you the same thing, in more or less words,
by repeating that I love you.
I love you--
and I love your body.
I love the heart that beats in your chest, and the feet that carry you
through the world. I love the hips that sway when you dance
and I love the eyes that make contact with strangers
causing their hearts to expand and contract rapidly--
I think you’re a wonderful person.
There’s nothing you have to do to prove that this is the truth to me
because I know that what I think
impacts the way I see the world
and if you weren’t--
everything I made you out to be in my mind, then
there’s no way you could change my ideas about it anyway
or regardless.
I will always love you, and I will always be in this moment with you
with part of my existence-- at this time,
from now on. And into the past, I will have always been aiming at this
moment-- to when I told you how I feel about you.
--
So we have here, the culmination of two minds; two trajectories
through the universe crossing at this point, and place, in space
and time.
--
They don’t cross forever. But, as far as I’m concerned, the duration of their
intersection is yet to be determined--
And that is where we find Freedom
is in how long we choose
to spend with people that are important to us.
And I’m telling you you’re important to me, and I don’t even know you.
So
:
:
:
KISS ME

It’s better looking over shoulders of a
road that isn’t there and leaves held
in the hands of
strangers combing through their sacks.
Eyes, dead, locked-- begging;
Pan the unique kilning porcelain
ornament for gives; stolen heat is hidden under tiles
as salt melts under tires and collapsing
blocks of ice float through
the crevice of your murky stream.
That pine severs from the limb of repose
and jams in meaning to your crook--
where your chasm distorts silence.

Previous eras were motivated by mystical forces such as god or universal structure of being
(EXISTENTIALISM)
as well as morality and a feeling of putting others before yourself
(RELIGION?)
and these approaches to life led to advancements in society and man’s relation to nature
(TREES)
but the problem with capitalistic society is that we have only one motivation prevailing over all others
(***)
that is, the motivation to reproduce the productive forces through monetary exchange.
(MONEY)
This structure of society will ultimately limit man's aims toward maintaining the status-quo and
will stagnate our advancement as a species
(MICROWAVE DEVELOPMENT)
the only way forward for mankind is to end capitalistic production and free our minds.
(POPCORN TUBE)

You walk a creature without leash
whose shell is your own flesh.
You treat the sunrise like a breeze,
which blows you where it will.
Each day a subtle fluttering, or
striding yard for yard
a gallop or a stuttering
that never goes too far--
Tell me, is it really you?
Running, in a daze.
Tell me, if that’s really you,
how to solve this maze.
Because I see you walk that creature,
as if it were your own,
and it seems to me you forget
that your body’s not your home.
You wade across the ocean
and fire into space;
with every single motion,
you stay resting in one place.

Remnants of firecrackers litter parkgrass, splitting seams once encasing them;
exposed twine ribs attached, stretched out beneath shade like sunken reliquiae
dashed against the earth, as freedom is, withered paper husks abound.
What explosions in the sky were heard
above the quietus of patient submission?
Tracing the dotted white clouds to our horizon with thread and colored cloth,
held breath until nighttime, expelling then
-- as wind does each languishing puff of smoke--
from our lungs, sordid smells of Summer; vanquishing the past.
Isolating each other, like memories on kodak prints
we separately cling to that sleek filmy acquaintanceship of proximity and hue
-- disavowed pariahs and hearts lit anew.
Fused inside one sallow skull-box, which doubled once for holding shoes, we linger.
Ideas, impulses and infringements on the eye, until-- once--
bound, unbroken, encased and unspoken,
our ribs unwind with dew-- after,
unstitching seams outlined from heaven and inundating visions with brightness
we descend.
Violent fumes of childhood intercede amidst our shaking fuses lit.
--and BANG!