something refracts off
of a surface is perceived
by brain equals thought

A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.

~
Belonging to Eden,
the garden of
inescapable pleasure.

Prepare to fall again
for the pretty things.

The desire to preserve life
lies at the root.

The way of flowers
--let them beckon and bloom--
sincerely upright,
vessels for memories,
methods of communicating
with distant versions of yourself,
a conversation that could
drift into tears or laughter,
personal revelation
or total silence,
depending on the mood.

If only time and thought
could be as perfectly
arranged as flowers.
~

Contentment
Pause
Breathe
Hope
Free
The mind
The load
Slow down
Rewind
Sit back
Intertwine
earn
Your keep
yearn
peace
Contentment
A place
A balance
An emotion

brains are weird,
little mysteries
all filled with
countless, unique
stories,
thoughts,
and memories

jiggly,
squiggly blobs
filled
with everything
we’ll ever
and
never
be able to know

like a jellyfish
filled with random
philosophies,
daydreams,
scary things,
memories,
ideas and plans
and other stuff
that is frightening

gelatinous lil
chubby
blubs
of thought
driving every function,
every aspect of our lives
telling us
when to blink
what to want
how to breathe

i just wish
this stupid
thing in my skull
would shut up
sometimes
and

just

not

think

the processe of the
manufacture of thought is
unknown to us all

the generation of knowledge
a task an event a time period
birthed in ignorance
no future thought just now
over and over creation here
the window of memory closed
on the thousands who first
built fire understanding nothing
except burnt fingers smokey eyes

In the grass, snakes lie
Fangs bared, ready to strike,
Slither over consciousness,
Turning strength weak,
As insidious thoughts do inside.
Cause man to pause,
As like a stone;
Movement defies