there's an ocean behind her eyes
an ocean in which she drowns
it's unlike any  
for no light reaches
perhaps,
it's the waves
which she can't pull herself out from
they tug her in
they drag her back
and she pours in
she melts
she returns
as if she had never left at all

there's a desert behind his struggle
and between the sun-kissed orbs
that loved to gaze on the sun
there's a hollowness he feels
it was as if he walked around
on naked feet
and upon broken shards of glass
but there’s a duty he bears
as if suddenly turning older
it meant becoming atlas
with the world upon his shoulders
and his own became ash

but he stays quiet
lips tightened shut
even if the silence weeps

and there's so much to say
but the words are already lost
between what couldn't have been
and between what was
at least most

and there's so
so many paths to walk on
but her bones ache
and he doesn't remember the last time
he had taken a breathe and had sat down

and they might meet,
between holding on and letting go
they might meet on the wrong road
or on the middle  
or in the end
at the right time
at the wrong place
and in between
just two strangers walking by

they might meet
in one gaze
in a single glance

and it would take little
to see the ghosts
of what they used to be
crawling behind
and the trail of blood
it would take very little
to see the ashes of dreams
upon their feet

to see the water
and to see the sand

it would take very little

Grey skies loom,
Threatening oncoming turmoil.
Or, a promise of loosening
Fixed ways?

In my shop I have many unused tools,
and many useless things if electricty fails,

if crafts were to prosper, self sufficiency,
enticements might be as messengers,
in light, show-wers of the way, in story,
as once all knowing was made sacred, set
up right, perpindicular to the axial age last

rotation of the guards. How long this mad
mad mad mad made up and fed us, realm
stuttered into our commonsensed dance
where reason claims war is economical,
eventually, we assume we are all pawns,
so we do what pawns do,
get through
to the otherside, dude,
do you imagine,
chess players today less adept than AI
the prime ministerial idea, taken at init,

correspond
dance, what was it Foulcault's said
to have said? How can one discern,

5wpm quill to scribble, letter forms
sounds fit to, to say How can one discern,
a mad happenstance revealing an edge,
just in time, to stop, and think it over,
one more time, why am I alive, for good?

Eternal question all one trick ponies ask.
Animalistic nature of the rural breeds used
to be used to feed the cities, now they breed.

As the plow horses freed by machines, bask
in what looks like wild horse freedom, to a child.
Flank straps induce a buck up response, influid
flowing response,
to clover in bloom and bees, a buffalo
and then, some men,
on horses, olden days, three generations back.

The after math of war is a societie's honored dead.
Should the logical out come
of a point to point
message transmitted in the clear out
of the blue,
direct to you
as love, not of the Freudian mindsets sexuality
fact or realized co-related, lately piled on,
happenstance and dammed good luck, free

really, humans do these displays, and reflect,
scheizkunst riddle art with holes in the empty
Universal soldier modeled on all boys hero's,

drama sells glory, even to the losers,
look at Custer, and the medals for Wounded Knee.

So, what must one account for, idle word wise,
I burned each one redeemed, as raw aha, mere
words to the wise, each enough to titiosis curiosis

in volk, ah, dem Milchmadchen boo on u uumlaut

whoa, go slow, madness and mayhem, tears
in the flat felt seaming, inner thigh, sore

flat black and white yen to yank reality into my time,
I offer you this investment
of your otherwise used time,

which goes on forever in six differing ways.

Words were left behind
    on top of the soil
    where they buried
    yesterday's bones

2. suddenly, this cold chill
    that has befriended my spine
    is now a sense of comfort
    that I am still alive

3. Grief, it is love, it is every form of love
    From every story I have ever read
    it is hope and despair
    it is the shadow
    of this rain
    that follows me
    home

4. I hope you see
    that this running clock
    moves in circles
    just like we do
                             the beginning of your journey
                             is closer to the end
                             than you could ever imagine

5. If you are looking for me
    I am searching for that old shadow
    we left with the sun for safekeeping
    thinking about burying old love

Losing you may be my fault,
but having you forever is not one of the ways to treat wounds.

We hope for peace and immortality
but we continually invent new ways
to destroy each other