Were your mind the soil from which words rise,
autochthonic,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
autochthonic
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;

but

we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him.

So grand yet so small
So important yet so irrelevant
So beautiful yet so shallow
must thee live in an illusion
Or does real life leave too much of a confusion?
When night comes
All seems quiet
Yet
doesn’t the dirt seem to like the dark?

Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Pick me some bluesy strings;
Tie me a bunch of wildflower quavers,
Let’s hear how your phoney sax sings.

Dip me in treacle,
Needle me with soul,
Groove me some dirt and some bass;
******* your ***** devil’s pipe strong,
Let’s play us some bourbon and lace.

Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Lay me down in meadowsong;
Rent me a dime’s worth of old dust and daydreams,
Honey chil’, you cain’t do me no wrong.

I know
My fences are hard to break
And that it often seems fake
Yet you try
To dig out
What was buried such a long time ago
Must admit
It’s all covered in dirt
May even stink a little
But
Can you hold on?
As i do not got none
But love
Oh deep love for you

She is running
She is running from the death
She is running from the unavoidable
From the dirt
Trying to escape
From the unavoidable
All the time
All the death
Is it enormous
Or microscopic
Is it really just another system shutting down
Or is it a dying history
A dying memory
A dying life

a mucky week,
feeling down.

can't figure out why.

I look at my creek
in my neighborhood
as I drive by

my heart aches
for the most mundane adventure;
a suburban expedition
is enough for me.

I'm home on the couch.
every heartbeat telling me to go,
splash in the creek,
follow its flow

my bike takes me there,
the wind in my ears

socks and shoes left at the bridge,
jeans rolled up to my knees.

the creek is a welcoming bitter cold

it's november but I miss this.

I clamber over rocks like a hermit crab,
covered in dirt,
not stopping

the trees are a beautiful ceiling
in this room that has no walls

as I watch the creatures in the water,
I want to envy them.

but I can't
when I'm having so much fun,
being me,
watching them.

I’m tucked between the ruggedness of wired fences and tugging hands
Grasping my heart with hungry fingers ready to rip in shreds
I’m tired of feeling so lost beyond words
By men that love to throw me on the ground with worms.