leaves bleed in the water
a small sip to check if it's
pleasing to taste
leave the cup alone
as I apply for jobs

We've cut the tree for warmth in winter's chill,
Only to lose its shade when summer's heat is still.
Cut only a branch, and let new life begin,
And you'll have fire and shade to cherish within.

Encorporations, Liebling --
Weforms, y bubbles in being buvvles.
Ancient knowing, long sacred, hidden,
as with the legend of confused names,

Epimythiums accosting promethean bets,

day and night, eat  your heart out, free
from regrets, satisfied mind, okeh, free

to act as agent
for lady liberty, here post feudal self,

as discovered in a canyon, much the same
as Sha'gri La from story, Havasu Canyon,
as home of a boy I knew, whose grandfather

had made peace, with good intention,
to remain in Supai until the end of time,

then, there come the missionaries, guessing
Victory in Jesus would rouse the innocents
to repent for never having imagined Hell,

as sure as can be made believe,
by **** sapien innocents,

never led by setters free,
into known uses
of old Eber clan ever words,
otherwise, still, small, breather thinking ideas,

whims like what if this is that, and we ready,
readers like think as fast as we can write,
as if we have been taught to dance
as when we drum along and dance

in mindful memorizational motivational wills,
to live the story we form as our weform agrees,

these are the realms of spirits, these are words
enough for the wise in any situation, sent, willing

to breathe, and feel, the whole wind working bit,
the smoke you may use, indeed, see believing
work out a salve for that itching ear, feeling

we form on-demand, at hand, at touche', indeed,
doing done, done did get done, this away from that,

back to the future,
through common senses used,
globally translatable
with Google Translate, using

copy and paste
of encoded letting out of dogmen,
from another mindform mingled

with mine, shall we

imagine Ancestory.com as a technology needing a lie,
to make believers
in what DNA can prove today,

if we go back far enough,
we were masters or slaves, and masters knew,

what slaves were not at liberty
to know,

without former knowers telling, so

dystopia ontological negative hope,

the princess and the pea, and me,
the wildass idea,
in the vineyard,

as the a sunbeam purpled
in a cluster

carried me
in a reverie
of poetic grandeur

indeed, into the afterward, ward after last.

Only when you are no longer preoccupied with living
can you begin to comprehend life

Suddenly you're 29 years old and you ve lost all your
friends from high school. You're sure they don't even remember you, but at the same time they ask your sister what you're up to and a friend's mum calls her by your name sometimes.

You dream of being 19 again, a backpack full of heavy books and stones you needed for art class that gave you back pain. You remember your teacher telling that you're not going to get far, but at the same time you remember your past successes and the teachers who believed in you.

you are reminded of being 9, being new to a country and learning its language. You feel made fun of, but at the same time you found two friends on the very first day of school and you still have the presents
they gave you 20 years ago.

You remember how you cried when your cousin was born two years after you because you did not want your grandfather to love anyone more than you, and how he's been gone for as long as you'd known him.

And you go on living.

You stay one morning longer, and you go on living.
You say your goodbyes and you go on living.

You go on living.

It's not a lot, but it's enough.
One life is enough-
Enough to love, to laugh, to cry,
enough to dream, to create,
enough to be, briefly, under this big, bright sun.

I'm done with the rain
it keeps whispering her name
every thumpy splash breaking
beading down this window,
I'm drenched in her fain
like the wind cries and the birds sing
as does the whizzing hum of a bee wing
muffs the mist off the white flowery vine
brings me around into the fruit of her smile
one of so many wordful days I felt as hers
nuzzled to her pink fuzzy sweater
the way her fluffy socks rubbed up my legs
as our eyes stare with pebble ripples
my nights a sweltering hell in this drought of her

My paint swells with blisters
these white walls whimper
tears create
a vision
a pattern
paintings on the canvas.
But no matter what the poet’s might say
not all pain is beauty to the eye
and mine
blisters and burns and cracks
like my bedroom walls in my childhood house.
No matter if you paint me over and over
or place a rug over carpet stains
or add a frame when you redecorate
building a collage on the wall over time
my paint will still blister.